Back in the dim distant past, when I acquired what I now refer to as an "education" (and, incidentally, taking seven years to complete a three-year degree, but that's another story) it was more or less traditional to spend the first year in the university hostels before moving out to go flatting. The university always tried to keep some second- and third-year students on in the hostels, probably under the impression that they would provide a rôle model of some sort to the impressionable fresh-faced first-years: I'm not convinced that this always worked quite as they expected.
Anyway, the first year was thus exposure to industrial food. Bit like a piggery, only perhaps not as clean. It was where I learnt that it was physically possible to keep toast warm in steamers, although that does rather negate the basic purpose of toast, which is to be crisp. I also learnt that baked beans on rubbery toast with "bacon" that may once have dreamt of being part of a pig can in fact be eaten and even held down, especially if weighted with enough "scrambled eggs" (which I now suspect to have been slices cut from a foam rubber mattress). And that was just breakfast. Dinner could be even more inventively horrible.
After that I, like most of my fellows, moved out and went flatting, which was also pretty much a dog's breakfast. My first flatmate (who also happened to own the flat) had spent a lot of time in Indonesia, I think, and his idea of a good meal was a curry. Now, I can agree: I still think that his habit of crumbling one or two dried, extremely hot chilis onto it because it was a bit dull was somewhat excessive.
In any case, the first book that was tremblingly thrust into the outstretched hands of spotty youths such as myself heading for the adventure of life was, 90% probable, a slim volume entitled "Food For Flatters". It still exists, having gone through a number of editions, and contained nutritional advice, hints on useful cooking utensils, and some actually rather reasonable recipes. Like, "Things to do with Mince", and "Semi-Hungarian Goulash". It unfortunately had a number of typos: one of which, calling for 4 tbsp of baking powder rather than 4 tsp, led to Julianne's Browneye Pudding. Which I'm ashamed to say I've never let her forget. Mind you, I've never forgotten it either, so I don't see why she should.
Personally, once I'd got a job (although still, technically, a student at the time) I went out and bought a couple of French cookbooks and started working my way through them. (I still have them, by the way, and still use them. Bloody good investment.) This was partly because I'd discovered that I actually liked food, and that cooking wasn't in fact all that difficult, partly because I thought I'd commit suicide if I had to face too many of Rodney's Rancid Roasts or Boil-Inna-Bag Ready-Made Rice Dinners, but mainly because it was an immutable law at our flat that the cook didn't have to do the washing-up. And as Julianne was capable of using every pot in the house just to cook some porridge, it was a pretty easy call to volunteer for the cooking ...
Today's meal then, as a tribute to past glories and the first cookbook I ever owned, is Imperial Meatloaf. Not, rest assured, that dry gray bootleather that I'm sure you've eaten: this is - if you do it properly, anyway - succulent and tasty, and damn good cold too.
You should really start by putting half a cup of breadcrumbs in a bowl along with a decent amount of whatever dried (or fresh) herbs take your fancy; I'd recommend something relatively assertive, like herbes de provence, considering what they'll be smothered under. Then add a quarter-cup of milk, and let that sit for a few minutes until it's all absorbed, at which point add an egg and beat it all up until you have a thick, smooth paste.
The next thing to do, whilst your hands are still relatively clean, is open a bottle of wine and fortify yourself with some of it. Exceptionally, none of it goes into the cooking so you don't have to be too light-handed: unless of course you have kitchen help that also requires lubrication. (Confession - I didn't do this for Sophie, so no-one was standing around in the kitchen looking thirsty. An advantage that small kitchens have over open-plan living spaces. Whatever, I did not have to share the bottle.)
In any case, finely chop a smallish onion and cut a carrot into thin rounds: put them in to stew in some butter whilst you slice up some red and green pepper. When the onion's golden and the carrot's started to soften add the sliced pepper, and after a couple more minutes dump two tsp of decent curry powder into the pot and stir it all around. (Or add more, if you like. Just make sure it's good stuff. Most commercial curry powders available here are kind of like hot tasteless dust, which rather misses the point.) If, like us, you always seem to have a half-tin of sweetcorn in the fridge which hasn't quite gone furry, fling that in too.
Before the next glass, slice some bacon into fine strips and strech them out on a sheet of tinfoil; once that's done, we're ready to go. But it will be kind of messy, so drink now.
This is the fun part, where you take the mince (about 300gm should be fine for two), put it in the bowl with the breadcrumb paste, and knead it with your fingers until the two are intimately mixed. But before doing that I would suggest rolling up your sleeves and taking your watch off; probably preemptively scratching your nose would not be a bad idea either.
The breadcrumbs serve to bind and soften the mix, and will help keep it nice and moist during the cooking. I'm not sure if they absorb some of the fat that'd otherwise leak out and be lost or whatever, but it does work. Whatever, spread the mixture out over the bacon strips and, one way or another, try to get a slab about the size of an A4 sheet of paper. If you haven't got enough, just make it smaller - resist the urge to get it too thin.
Now scrape what you can off your hands with the back of a knife or whatever, and have a good wash. There's a fair bit of fat even in 5% mince, and for some reason it always seems to collect around your fingernails and under rings and suchlike. Having someone around to turn the hot tap on for you might be a good idea, otherwise it too will be covered in grease.
Anyway, you could now have yet another glass before spreading a good dose (about a quarter cup, maybe) of plum sauce all over the meat. Not Chinese plum sauce, good antipodean plum sauce made by boiling plums down with onions, cloves, sugar and vinegar. At a pinch I suppose you could use some good ketchup, but I'd be tempted to try some spicy mango chutney if I were going to substitute. Or perhaps some decent salsa.
And once that's done, spread the curried vegetables out over the lot. If you really want to - and I'm not trying to discourage you on this one - crumble some Roquefort over it, or spread out some slices of fresh goat cheese. (I'm not a great fan of Roquefort myself, but I did get some rather nice fresh cendré at the market this moaning, so that's what I used.) Finally, using the tinfoil to help, roll it all up along the long side into a hopefully not too deformed log before tipping it into a loaf tin, preferably without dropping it on the floor or getting the tinfoil hopelessly entangled in the process.
Now at this point it's not going anywhere by itself, so you can just leave it to sit while you consider what you're going to eat with it. (Don't forget that at some point you will actually need to cook it - about 45 minutes in the oven should do the trick.) I think roast potatoes are a good idea, but a slightly liquidy gratin wouldn't be too bad either. Nor, come to that, would nice crisp frites. As for the greenery department, I'd be tempted just to go for a good salad - mind you, I do have vast quantities of magali-dressing in the fridge (got a bit enthusiastic making some up the other day) and that could bias me.
And for dessert, we just had banana cake with crême anglaise (aka custard), but I'll leave that up to you.
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