Recipes

The grand project, cut down to exactly what's in the pack

A whole beef Wellington is a magnificent thing that needs a dinner party to justify it. Individual Wellingtons are the smarter play: your two 140g medallions are precisely the right size, everyone gets their own golden pastry parcel, and there's no nervous carving in front of an audience. This is a proper Saturday-afternoon project — duxelles, prosciutto, puff pastry, the works — but every stage is honest and none of it is hard. Give it ninety minutes and pour yourself something while the oven does the final act.

The bistro classic that's really just steak and chips, done properly

Every bistro in Paris built its name on this plate, and here's the quiet truth: it's steak and chips. What turns it into steak frites is care — chips cut thin and roasted properly crisp, a hard-seared steak rested as long as it takes, and a parsley-lemon butter that carries all the browned pan goodness over the top. The 420g sirloin halves neatly into two bistro-sized steaks, so this is dinner for two, done exactly right. Pour something red and don't answer the phone.

The restaurant sauce that's secretly a one-pan job

Marsala and mushrooms is what good Italian restaurants have been spooning over fillet for generations, and there's a reason: the cut is mild and buttery-tender, and the sauce brings the caramel depth it's quietly asking for. Here's the good news — the whole thing happens in one pan. Sear the medallions, rest them under foil, and while they sit, the mushrooms, Marsala and cream build the sauce on the same browned bits the steaks left behind. Forty minutes, start to plate, and it looks like you booked a table.

The fanciest steak in the share, on a Tuesday

Eye fillet has a reputation as restaurant food — the cut you order out because you're worried about wrecking it at home. Here's the truth: two medallions, a hot pan and eight minutes is all it takes, and the garlic cream sauce builds itself in the same pan while the steaks rest. No tricks, no cheffy equipment, no stress. If it's your first go at the tenderest cut in the pack, this is exactly where to start.

The old steakhouse secret that never tastes of fish

I know — anchovies. Stay with me. Mashed into soft butter with garlic, lemon and parsley, they don't taste of fish at all; they melt into a deep, savoury richness that old-school steakhouses have quietly relied on for generations. Sirloin is the right steak for it too — clean, honest flavour that carries the butter without being buried by it. Charred broccolini from the same pan, a squeeze of lemon, and you've got a dinner that tastes far fancier than the half hour it takes.

The Friday ritual: one great steak, spuds that shatter

Call it sirloin, porterhouse or New York strip — it's the same handsome steak, and it's the one waiting in your Pack C share. This is the Friday-night ritual version: chat potatoes boiled, smashed flat and roasted until they shatter, while the steak gets a hard sear and a minute under foaming garlic-and-rosemary butter. Nothing clever, nothing fussy — just the plate half the pubs in the country built their reputation on, done at home for a fraction of the price.

The dish that asks everything of the cut — and nothing of the cook

Carpaccio is Venice's great confidence trick: it looks like restaurant theatre, and there's no cooking in it at all. Paper-thin raw fillet, good olive oil, lemon, rocket, capers, parmesan — that's the entire dish. What it does demand is the tenderest, cleanest cut there is, from a source you trust completely, and that's exactly what the twin pack in your share was born for. The only technique is a trick: half an hour in the freezer firms the medallions so your sharpest knife can shave them gossamer-thin. After that, you're just arranging.

Vietnam's celebration beef, straight off a smoking-hot pan

Bo luc lac means "shaking beef" — cubes of fillet tossed over ferocious heat until they're caramelised outside and still rosy in the middle, then tipped over watercress so the hot juices wilt the greens and become the dressing. In Vietnam it's a celebration dish, made with the tenderest cut in the house, and that's precisely what's in your pack. The marinade takes thirty minutes in the fridge and the cooking takes four. The lime-pepper dip on the side is non-negotiable — one taste and you'll understand why.

Thirty seconds a side, and the fridge does the rest

If raw beef sounds a step too far, tataki is the friendly cousin. The sirloin gets a ferocious sear — under a minute a side — so the outside is deeply browned while the centre stays rare, then a short chill in the fridge firms it up for slicing paper-thin. Fanned on a platter with sharp citrusy ponzu, ginger and sesame, one steak becomes an elegant shared starter for four. It's mostly waiting, honestly — the actual cooking is over in five minutes.