Listen Up, U.S. Department of Defense - My Casserole Dish Exploded.

This month's issue of Gourmet Traveller featured a special on all things Greek, with an emphasis, of course, on the food. Now, I'm completely aware that I risk offending an entire nation of loquacious, hot-blooded, gold-jewellery bedecked, palm-thrusting, monobrow and back waxing (not just the men) natives and its generously scattered diaspora when I proclaim - I didn't get Greek food.

I appreciated that the Greeks gave us metaphysics, maps, the thermometer, irony and pizza (2 centuries of colletive Italian pride just turned in its grave), but when I thought of Greek food, what came to mind was stodgy eggplant, Neanderthal hunks of roasted animals (mostly goat and preferably whole), buckets of oil-whelmed, roasted potatoes dressed in thyme, and a tired salad desperately begging to be jazzed up so olives and feta's tossed in to silence it.

What's wrong with that, you ask. Haven't you had moussakas that didn't taste like a try hard cross between a shepherd's pie and vegetable lasagna? And let us not forget, the ancient Greeks were salting eggplants and grating nutmeg long before the English thought to camouflage minced meat with mashed potato or the Italians devised lavishing pasta sheets with vegetables and cheese. Incidentally, some years back, certain British researchers had the gall to proclaim that lasagna was invented by the English in the 14th century, which precipitated a frenzied hunt by Italian historians for a pre-1390 reference of lasagna in Italian cookbooks. Here's a hint - never, EVER, stand in the way of a crazed Italian scrambling to defend his nationalistic pride.

Back to the point. What's less honest and satisfying than good roast meat, potatoes and veg? Nothing, except, that was all I thought of when it came to Greek cuisine. I realized I was seriously in danger of losing any cred as an intrepid prospector of all things palatable, so imagine my excitement when amongst the glossy pages of GT, I found the recipe for "Prawn Saganaki?

I'm a real believer of improvisation. Any cook worth his/her salt should have enough of an assortment of ingredients in the larder to make most basic dishes. No marsala? Use brandy and white wine. Need celery for soup? Use frozen peas. Out of thyme? Marjoram works too. You get the picture.

On this day, however, I was in possession of every ingredient required to produce a respectable prawn saganaki, including a blue and white casserole dish with daisy motifs (which I later found out was circa early 1960s, and belonged to Nath's great grandmother). The colours of Greece! It was destiny.

15 minutes, 1 chopped red onion, 2 cloves of sliced garlic, 1 tin of tomatoes, sprinkles of oregano, a bay leaf and 12 large king prawns later, I stood, poised with a half-poured glass of white wine, at the stove, surrounded by debris of blue and white ceramic, and what was meant to be lunch. Yes, there was screaming involved.

How did that happen? Nathan insisted that casserole dishes were not made for stovetops. I begged to differ.

Disgruntled, I googled Corningware. It was first introduced in 1958 and evolved from material developed for the U.S ballistic missiles programme. This particular heat-resistant material was/is used in missile nose cones and heat tiles in space shuttles. I'm sorry, but the dish was meant to last a thousand years, from freezer to stove to oven, from Antarctica to the Sahara to Outer Space. And it couldn't withstand 100ml of Lindemann's semillon sauvignon straight from the fridge, after 15 minutes over the cooktop?

My feelings of vindication were short-lived, as I was besieged by a pressing desire to write a letter to the U.S. Department of Defense or even Nasa, warning them that their country was in danger, and that their astronauts were at risk of blowing up in mid air, just as my casserole dish had. Nathan suggested I take my meds.

The prawn saganakis never eventuated, but I've developed a newfound respect for Greek food and will try again.. something less traumatizing, perhaps.

Here's non life-threatening recipe, assuming you've got a dependable dutch oven. I tried in vain to position the headless nude quail in a pose that wasn't unflattering. This was the best of the lot, with its legs crossed and looking quite demure.

Quail Braised in Red Wine (Neil Perry)

8 quail

sea salt

olive oil

1 red onion, quartered

8 garlic cloves

1 tblspn ginger, grated

2 rosemary sprigs

4thyme sprigs

2 dried long chillies, seeds removed and crushed

2 carrots sliced into rounds

250ml red wine

400gm tinned tomatoes with juices

150ml chicken stock

freshly ground black pepper

DIRECTIONS

Season quail inside and out with salt. Preheat oven to 160C.

Heat oil in heavy, ovenproof pan or dutch oven. brown quail, remove from pan and set aside.

Fry onion, garlic, ginger, rosemary, thyme, chilli and carrot for 2 min or until softened. Add wine and simmer until reduced. Add tomato and its juices, stock and quail. COver with lid and cook in oven for 40 minutes.

Remove pan form oven, gently turn the quail over, return to the oven and cook, uncovered for further 10 min. Check seasoning. Serve atop spinach and mashed potato.