Coddle is exactly as homely and comforting as it sounds: a hodge-podge of leftovers that, according to JP McMahon’s Irish Cookbook, was born out of poverty and famine, and is claimed as a favourite of everyone from Jonathan Swift to Seán O’Casey; it even pops up twice in the works of James Joyce. It is, however, so relatively little known outside Dublin that even the great Midlands-born and now Cork-based chef and food writer Darina Allen professed ignorance in her Complete Book of Irish Country Cooking.
She headed to the capital to find out more, a decision that perhaps offers a clue as to the dish’s relative obscurity; rather than home-reared mutton and vegetables from the garden, in its usual form, coddle relies on cheaper processed meats, which places it, historically at least, in an urban rather than rural context. As McMahon very sensibly observes: “with its associations of poverty, it is surprising to find ‘authentic’ recipes, especially given the status of the dish as being made with whatever leftovers were to hand (as in pig’s trotters/feet, pork ribs, etc.” My mum, who has Irish heritage, claims no knowledge of the dish, let alone a family “recipe”, but, that said, here is my perfect version.
The meat
Trotters and ribs aside, all the coddles I try use sausages and bacon, though, in the course of further research, I hear rumours that white pudding can be deployed as a thickener (something I’m very pro, as a fully paid-up fan of puddings of any hue). That those sausages should be plain pork is about the only point of agreement, however. Some, such as Donal Skehan and Diana Henry, leave them whole, while others, for instance Allen, cut them into pieces, so they end up more like little meatballs. I come to the conclusion that, unless you’re dealing with leftover cooked sausages in the traditional fashion, it makes more sense to keep them whole, not least so they remain as juicy as possible.
Unfortunately, it cannot be denied that a whole poached sausage is an unappetising-looking thing, and invites the kind of unsavoury comparisons that have no place in a family newspaper. It is, presumably, for this reason that Skehan begs for purist forgiveness before he browns them in a frying pan: “I’m sorry, I can’t bear a nude sausage sitting in my coddle.” In fact, almost everyone follows suit, with the exception of Allen and food writer Joan Scales, who boldly proclaims her granny’s recipe the one true coddle, but really there’s no good reason to do so, apart from aesthetic purposes. Sausage casings are flavourless, so browning them won’t bring anything to the party other than making them look less like something recently pulled from the river. If you’re squeamish, by all means give your bangers a quick sizzle in the pan first, but I’d advise simply chucking them in raw and remembering that a lot of delicious things in life aren’t lookers.
Bacon is a different story – all right-thinking people agree that golden-brown bacon fat is far superior to the pallid, poached stuff. The fat rendered during frying can then be used to cook the onions, so the taste permeates the entire dish. Yes, you can throw everything in one go, as no doubt was done in the past, but I think this step is worth the extra few minutes’ work.
For many readers, the most difficult part of this dish is likely to be getting hold of the right sort of bacon. The lean, wafer-thin stuff beloved of our big retailers may be optimal for a crisp breakfast bap, but it dries out during prolonged cooking. Given how oddly hard it is to find thick-cut rashers with a decent amount of fat, outside a few decent butchers, you must use your own judgment as to the best option available to you.
The predominant characteristic of a coddle should be pork, rather than smoke, but if you prefer (or can only find) smoked bacon, the sky won’t fall in. Similarly, I favour back over streaky, so there’s more meat involved, but if it’s all brutally trimmed and near translucent, streaky will stand up better to 45 minutes on the hob. (Maureen Butler of Meath, whose recipe is included in the Irish Countrywoman’s Association’s Irish Country Cooking collection, calls for a single piece of bacon that she then chops into 2½cm chunks after grilling, which happens to be about the size of the stuff sold as lardons in many supermarkets, and makes them a good alternative if you’re struggling to source decent bacon.) Note that, if you happen to have thick-cut ham or gammon to spare, you could use that instead.
The veg
Scales disapprovingly recounts earwigging on a girl describing coddle to a foreign friend: “My ears pricked up, then she mentioned carrots and I knew she was a blow-in. Whoever heard of carrots in a coddle?” My suspicions are that, once upon a time, just about anything that was handy (and edible) would have been thrown in for good measure (Lucy Madden admits in her book Potato Year that: “Sometimes I add root vegetables such as parsnips or turnips”, while conceding that “some might regard any departure from the traditional ingredients as sacrilege”). Yet such is the shame of this that only onions and potatoes feature in the written record.
You could, as Scales does, incorporate both raw, but frying the onions first will bring out their flavour, and especially if you do so in bacon fat. Allen cautions readers not to let them brown, however, on the basis that this is a white stew; instead, soften them to mellow, buttery sweetness.
In such a simple dish, every ingredient is on show, which means I prefer the onions sliced, so they retain their shape, rather than finely chopped, which would disappear into the gravy. Similarly, the potatoes work better, to my mind, if you leave them in fairly large chunks, rather than chopping them into small cubes, as in Allen’s rather elegant take in the Irish Examiner. But my favourite approach is Butler’s, who uses the potatoes as the top layer of her casserole, so that, while their bottoms are soaked in gravy, the tops taste purely of delicious, starchy spud.
Oddly, only two recipes touch on the variety required. Scales is firm that “waxy are better than floury”, and Skehan agrees. I like them to keep their shape, so I’m also going to recommend using waxy – often sold as salad or new potatoes – but of course all-purpose or starchier tubers will work just fine, too, and you might actually prefer the way they break down around the edges to thicken the gravy.
Skehan is also out on a limb with his addition of pearl barley, though it seems entirely in the thrifty spirit of the dish, and is particularly popular for those among my testers who aren’t too keen on what they describe as “wet food”. Something to bear in mind if you’d like to stretch the recipe below a bit further (in which case, cut up the sausages before cooking, too).
The liquid
Water is no doubt the most “authentic” choice, but ham, vegetable or chicken stock will give the dish a more well-rounded flavour – though I wouldn’t make it too strong, because neither sausages nor bacon are shy and retiring types. Two good alternatives for you; Henry suggests using cider in her classic, and recently reissued Roast Figs, Sugar Snow (apples are reliably lovely with pork and onions); while Allen adds double cream, conceding that her take “is more like a French blanquette, a rich and elegant, cream-based stew”. While undeniably tasty, it is very rich indeed. If the idea of a dairy-based coddle appeals, but the cream does not, a slightly plainer take is possible, as in Scales’ recipe, which is finished with a pint of whole milk. (Presumably, some people make it with stout, as seems to be the law with anything vaguely Irish, but the only examples of this I find are from the US.)
The herbs
This is not a heavily seasoned dish, but parsley seems to be mandatory, to my annoyance. As I am the only person in the world not to like this apparently inoffensive herb, I cannot be trusted to be objective on this point, so I will simply say that you could (AKA should) swap it for Scales and Allen’s thyme, because thyme is much nicer. Madden and Skehan’s bay leaf is, I think, optional, unless you’re making a creamy coddle: the flavour is particularly noticeable in Allen’s dish. White or black pepper is a good idea, salt will probably be unnecessary. A big heap of cabbage on the side is a must.
To bake or not to bake?
As with many such recipes born out of poverty, it’s unlikely that many people were baking their coddle back in Joyce’s day, because few people would have had ovens, or the fuel to run them; it was much more efficient to cook over the fire. These days, most of us are more fortunate, so if you’d prefer to bake yours, go ahead – it may be useful to know that, according to Butler, you can leave it in there for up to five hours. For me, however, it’s cheaper to cook coddle on the stovetop, so that’s what I prefer to do.
Should you be hoping to impress with this humble stew, take two tips from Skehan: one, brown those sausages; and two, slice your potatoes fairly thickly, layer them on top, dot with a little butter, then pop them into the hot oven to brown before serving.
Perfect Dublin coddle
Prep 10 min
Cook 1 hr
Serves 4-6
1 small knob of butter or lard, or a little oil
8 thick rashers unsmoked bacon (back bacon with a good stripe of fat, for preference), or 250g bacon lardons, chopped into chunks
2 large onions, peeled and sliced
A few thyme sprigs, leaves picked, or 1 small bunch parsley, finely chopped
6-8 pork sausages
About 800g waxy potatoes, peeled and cut into large chunks
800ml-1 litre ham or chicken stock, or water, or half water, half cider
Salt and black or white pepper
A little chopped parsley, to finish (optional)
Cabbage and brown sauce, to serve (optional)
Put the fat in a large pot for which you have a lid on a medium-high heat, then fry the bacon until the fat runs and it just starts to brown, but before the bacon turns crisp. Lift out the bacon, keeping as much fat in the pan as possible, and set aside.
Turn down the heat to medium-low, then fry the onions, stirring regularly, until soft, but without letting them take on too much colour apart from that from the bacon fat. Stir in the thyme, if using, and season with pepper.
Add the sausages, bacon and potatoes and pour over the liquid – use more if you’d prefer a brothier dish.
Bring to a simmer, then cover, turn down the heat and cook for about 45 minutes, until the potatoes are cooked through.
Taste the gravy, season if necessary, then sprinkle with parsley, if using, and serve with cabbage and brown, Worcestershire or similar sauce.
Are you familiar with the coddle and, if so, how do you make your own one true recipe – with stout or milk, back or streaky bacon, slow-baked or quickly simmered? Does anyone add tomatoes or garlic, or make a meat-free version?
