Having been asked, most cordially, by the editor to furnish you with an Easter luncheon menu, I then asked that I might further be allowed to talk you through my thoughts and musings regarding the recipes, the dishes, rather than to simply plonk them among you. Please read them carefully, leisurely, enjoyably and ponder more the cookery, rather than the regimen. Also, Easter remains my favourite feast of the year: it is the first one; springtime beckons; miraculous rejuvenation. From a sombre Friday to a Happy Holiday Monday, there is scope for all kinds of kitchenalia – and for four whole days! Christmas? Go figure.

All the recipes serve four

Mimosas and cheese pastries

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Mimosas and cheese pastries. Photograph: Romas Foord/The Observer

Much as I adore the perfect pre-prandial luncheon cocktail – the Bullshot, the Bloody or even the Bloody Bull (a mix of the two) – I find myself with the dilemma of matching such a vegetal beverage with rich cheese pastries. So, the “amused mouth”, this time, wins over the favoured savoury beverage in the guise of champagne and freshly squeezed orange juice. Some call it a buck’s fizz, but I feel sure that the prettier mimosa appellation predates it by some years. Nomenclature aside, it remains a lovely primrose-yellow drinky, so perfectly apt to launch an early spring Easter lunch.

I believe the perfect ratio of juice to fizz is one-third the former, two thirds the latter – and the juice must be strained through a fine sieve or tea-strainer before use. And there will be ICE! A mimosa soon warms up in the glass, further exacerbated by the warmth of a paw around it. Furthermore, please don’t serve mimsy mimosas; that champagne should be served in a flute is misguided, here. I use a fine-glass beaker with three or four ice cubes stirred in when serving, along with an optional tiny slug of Cointreau.

Cheese and sesame puff-pastries

Makes 60-70 tiny biscuits

Having so very much wished – and for ages! – to gingerly attempt to home-make my most loved cheese biccies, Roka Cheese Crispies, here follows the result.

The “crispies” used to come in a charming blue and yellow tin; now, sadly, they are presented in just a thin blue and yellow cardboard box, but which neatly slots into a tin that I sensibly kept long ago, advised so to do by the late Elizabeth David (she happily almost lived on them towards the end of her life).

Once, grumpily protesting that “I cannot find them in these pretty tins any more!”, while sipping from a glass or two of sublime chablis, I sympathetically stared at her, sorry as a closed shop.

Be prepared with a sheet of all butter puff pastry, carefully selected from the supermarket chilled shelf. Generally, they all hover around the 320g weight. It is a good product and, be assured, performs admirably for these pastries unless you are a purist and wish to home-make.

Unroll the pastry rectangle from its sheet of paper and, using a pastry brush, generously cover the surface right to the edge, with beaten egg. Finely grate about 100g of tasty cheese – cheddar, lancashire, say – over the entire rectangle, bravely sprinkle with cayenne pepper (I use the not-too-hot but fragrant piment d’Espelette almost all the time, these days, when cayenne is asked for) and then press down with the hands. I know that the estimable Roka uses gouda, but this is simply because the biscuit company is Dutch, so they would, wouldn’t they?

Place the sheet with the longest side closest to you, and cut it into four equal sections, using a large knife and with one downward stroke towards you; do not drag the knife, or the pastry will ruck up. Carefully lift the far left-hand section, deftly invert it over the adjoining one and press down firmly. Brush this exposed, un-cheesed (double) pastry layer with more egg wash. Fold over the far right-hand section in the same way and brush with egg wash. Next, bring over this right section onto the left section, and press down firmly. Loosely wrap in a sheet of greaseproof paper and, using a heavy book, say, weight the pastry in a cool place (preferably not the fridge) for about an hour. Tidy up any stray bits of cheese that linger and lift the “sandwich” onto a large sheet of clingfilm and wrap up tightly. Now, place in the fridge to firm up for at least an hour, or overnight if you wish.

You will also need 4-5 tablespoons of finely grated parmesan and some sesame seeds.

Once the pastry has rested, preheat the oven to 200C/gas mark 6. Have ready a flat baking sheet and line it with parchment paper.

Unwrap the pastry sandwich and cut it in half lengthways (wrap one of the halves in film and put in the freezer for another occasion). Now, using a sharp and precise motion, cut the length of pastry into thin slices (about ¼cm wide) and lay each one flat upon the lined baking sheet, with about a 2cm separation between them. Lightly brush with egg wash, sprinkle generously with sesame seeds, then parmesan and bake in the oven for about 10 minutes, or until golden crusted and smelling just divine. Leave for 5 minutes then lift them off the paper and put to cool on a rack. Bake in batches, obviously, depending upon baking sheet size.

Watercress salad with chopped egg, chives, toasted crumbs and anchovy dressing

It is truly astonishing that the domestic cook is unable to find decently delicious and fresh watercress in the average British greengrocer or supermarket. It took a visit to a small Dublin restaurant, some years ago, to find some of the finest, emerald (natch) green sprigs I have ever seen. Its taste smacked the mouth with hot astringency, the leaves so large – almost as broad as nasturtium leaves – so fresh and almost fleshy that it felt as if I was eating watercress for the first time. Avoid the bagged stuff and search out bunches.

Trim and wash a couple of large bunches of watercress, pick over into neat sprigs, loosely dry in a tea towel and keep in the fridge until ready to dress. Hard-boil 3 eggs, shell and put to one side. In a goodly amount of olive oil, quietly fry a couple of handfuls of stale, coarse white breadcrumbs – together with salt and a sprinkle of chilli flakes – until golden and crisp. Lift out with a slotted spoon and drain on kitchen paper. In a small food processor, puree together several small anchovy fillets, a heaped tablespoon of good mayonnaise, a scrap of garlic, a squeeze of lemon juice and a little tap-hot water to loosen the emulsion. Once smooth, add a glug or two of olive oil and process once more; it must emerge pourable.

To serve, pop the watercress in a wide and roomy bowl and splash over it very little olive oil. Toss together lightly using the hands. Grate the eggs all over and snip chives generously over the eggs. Finally, trickle the anchovy dressing from the end of a spoon all over the assembly in random streaks before completing the salad with a flurry of crumbs. This, be advised, is a delicious salad.

Pot-roast shoulder of lamb with endives

I am particularly fond of a braised, small joint of meat cooked with whole endives. Pork is possibly my favourite choice, especially with sage and much garlic to infuse meagre, though intense, savoury cooking juices. But here we are at Eastertide, when it would seem perverse not to go down the Pascal route. Please don’t waste a cut of ruinously expensive tender spring lamb here, even if available, for this is a slow affair, with the meat close to falling away from the bone, once ready to eat; save spring cuts for a little later, say late May, when both its cost has somewhat diminished, a touch more flavour has further emerged and, whichever joint preferred, should be cooked pink.

I have, in the past, found much favour with an albeit fatty, boned and rolled breast of lamb (and so cheap), particularly when smothered by its weight of copious sliced onions; no liquid required, simply the exuded sweet moisture of the allium. But here, for Easter, I think the cut needs a nudge upwards. I have chosen half a shoulder of lamb, about 1kg and, preferably, the half that accommodates the blade rather than the more difficult remainder, the knuckle part, so tedious to tackle and carve.

Choose a large, preferably oval pot which has a lid (a Le Creuset, is ideal) and of a size that you can see will accommodate both the joint and 4 large endives (chicory), the latter later tucked around it. Now put the pot onto a medium heat and add the merest film of oil. Season the meat well with both salt and pepper and quietly allow to brown in the oil on each side, but with particular attention to the skin so, as well as it gilding nicely, it will also render out excessive fat. Once this is done, remove the meat, tip out the accumulated fat and discard. Heat the oven to 180C/gas mark 4.

Roughly slice up into the pot a small onion and 6-7 medium-sized white mushrooms, along with 3 crushed garlic cloves and 2 broken sprigs of rosemary. Pour in a glass of dry white wine and bring up to a simmer. Reintroduce the lamb, closely cover with a tight-fitting sheet of dampened greaseproof paper (or foil), reattach the lid and slide into the oven. Once 20 minutes has elapsed, remove and turn the meat over. Turn the oven down to 150C/gas mark 2 and continue to cook for a further 30 minutes. Meanwhile, take the endives, trim away any tired leaves and, using a small, sharp knife, remove the little core from the base (its most bitter part) using a tight circular cut; it will emerge as a tiny cone. Put the endives in a bowl and squeeze over the juice of a small lemon.

Now remove the lamb from the pot, put it into a bowl and strain the juices over it through a fine sieve. Discard the exhausted vegetables and return both lamb and juices to the pot. Tuck the endives around the lamb, including the lemon juice, then pop on the lid. Return to the oven for a further 40-50 minutes; at some point, it is a good idea to turn the endives so that they become sticky-stewed all over. When carving the meat, it will ease itself away from the bone with not much more than a nudge from the blade. Serve the lamb, its juices and the endives with the following accompaniments.

Courgettes with cream and mint

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Courgettes with cream and mint. Photograph: Romas Foord/The Observer

A freshly cut garden courgette is just lovely: fragrant and with the scent of summer. I know that it is too early for such a delight, just now, but when you have that opportunity in the months to come, snatch them when you can. In the meantime, select the most green, the most firm available for purchase. Once you have them, allow about 6 medium courgettes to feed four. Slice them on a tight diagonal – not too thin – sprinkle with fine salt (only to season, not to dredge) and pop into a colander. Leave them to drain for 30 minutes. Pat dry in a tea towel, tip into a shallow saucepan and cover with a pot of whipping cream (300ml) and a thick slice of butter. Grind over some pepper and stir in a small, crushed clove of garlic. Bring to a simmer and allow the cream to reduce as the courgettes cook to a succulent tenderness; al dente, here, is an imposter. Stir in a handful of chopped mint and serve at once, piping hot.

A puree of new potatoes and olive oil

Facebook Twitter Pinterest A puree of new potatoes and olive oil. Photograph: Romas Foord/The Observer

Many cooks who choose to make this most luxurious of purees will use maincrop potatoes. However, when I first came upon the recipe (from Fredy Girardet’s cookery book La Cuisine Spontanée) some 30 years ago, the potatoes asked for were new. Although it may seem an easier task to incorporate oil into a fondant fluff of mashed maincrops, I remain convinced that his original stands alone; a unique, gloriously glossed potato puree.

For this recipe use about 350g of new potatoes (use Jersey mids later in the year), peeled. Simmer in salted water until tender. Drain them, dry out a little in the empty pan, then force through a potato ricer into a clean pan containing about 100ml of double cream and the same of the finest, fruity olive oil. Add a little cayenne pepper and then slowly whisk together over a low heat. As the mixture becomes hot, begin to beat with added vigour until the emulsion is glossy and thick. Check for salt and serve promptly.

Note: Girardet was particularly fond of the rare and costly Provençal oil from the village of Maussane, near Saint Remy, for his recipe. I once did the same and, truly, it was worth the expense.

Pistachio and chocolate tarts

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Pistachio and chocolate tarts. Photograph: Romas Foord/The Observer

Makes about 15-20 small tarts

First of all, have 150g of shelled pistachios stored in the freezer.

Whisk together 150g of softened, salted butter and the same of caster sugar in a bowl until very light and fluffy. One by one, add 3 small eggs, whisking well between each one, until the mixture is really thick. Now finely grind the pistachios from frozen in a small food processor (the deep chill prevents them from quickly becoming claggy), then whisk (do not fold) them into the mixture along with 2-3 tablespoons of Amaretto liqueur; it should taste quite pronounced in the mix. Spoon into a container and leave to firm up in the fridge.

Roll out a sheet of all-butter puff pastry as thin as you can – as thin as a 2p piece, if you dare. My tart tray moulds are 2cm deep x 6cm across the top, so use a cutter that is 8-9cm – fluted or plain, it matters not – to form pastry disks. Very lightly grease the moulds, fit the pastry and lightly prick each base with a fork.

Preheat the oven to 200C/gas mark 6 and place a flat tray in there to heat up; this helps to cook through and crisp the tart bases. Place a small square of best dark chocolate in the base of each tart, then top with a rounded tablespoon of the pistachio filling; have a mug of boiled water to hand, dipping the spoon into it between each scoop so the filling slides easily off the spoon into each pastry case. Bake for about 7-8 minutes, or until the filling is beginning to puff, then turn down to 180C/gas mark 4 and finish cooking until the tops are golden and the base of each tart crisp; altogether, about 20 minutes of baking. Lift the tarts out onto a cooling rack and, once warm or at room temperature, deftly sift with icing sugar. Delicious when eaten with vanilla-scented and slightly sweetened whipped cream, or creme fraiche.

Roast Chicken and Other Stories by Simon Hopkinson (Ebury, £18.99) is 25 years old this month