This article is taken from the February 2023 issue of The Critic. To get the full magazine why not subscribe? Right now we’re offering five issues for just £10.

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Childish misunderstandings can be persistent. I once persuaded Hugh Trevor-Roper to return to his old school to talk to the boys. Mellowed by common-room port, he confessed that a line in the school song defeated him: “I know many old men,” he explained, “who prefer the country to the town.” At 12 years old, he had mistaken the Latin anthem’s reference to what was originally a dual foundation — an urban hospice for the elderly and a rural academy for the young.

No coquettes come my way; nor do many croquettes — not, at least, good ones outside Spain

Before becoming an historian, Hugh had been a redoubtable Classics scholar, who won top prizes for the subject at Oxford; yet no learning could unfreeze his childish perception. I recall hearing a notable poetess tell me how, long after she attained literacy, a dangerously heretical conviction endured: that the Lord’s prayer alluded to “witch-art in heaven”. My wife spent her childhood pitying criminals who had been remanded in custard.

In my turn, I was misled by a song, improperly deemed suitable for children, though popular with licentious soldiery in the Mexican revolution. Marieta, counselled the chorus, no seas coqueta, or “Mariette, be no coquette”.

I was unacquainted with coquetry at the age of three, and my knowledge of it remains sadly theoretical to this day. “Mariette,” resounded in my childish ear, “Don’t be a croquette.”

This seemed no more senseless than the usual nonsense rhymes with which adults insult children’s intelligence. Yet it has a kind of metaphorical aptness: among Mexican revolutionaries, it would surely be unwise for a girl to try to conceal gooey toothsomeness under a crisply appetising exterior.

No coquettes come my way; nor do many croquettes — not, at least, good ones outside Spain. In other cultures, cooks seem to lack the necessary patience and confidence. Dutch kroketten encase unalluring grey slime. The English misapply the corresponding name to depressing fritters of leftover mash.

French chefs make croquettes with indigestibly heavy fillings and usually marginalise them as garnish. Italians are too committed to arancini to bother.

In principle, even a child too innocent for coquetry can master the requisite cookery

Almost everywhere the dish has disappeared from domestic kitchens. The illusion that it is hard to make is probably the result of the tyranny of the inferior and elaborate French version, which involves such supererogatory silliness as thickening velouté with eggs.

Croquetas, in Spanish tradition, do need preparation in advance — tiresome, perhaps, for a world where forethought has become an encumbrance and anticipation a superfluity, but attainable among readers of The Critic. And cooks must be willing to make sacrifices to disaster while they practise to attain the perfect degree of solidity for the béchamel at the heart of a true, crispy, creamy croquette. In principle, even a child too innocent for coquetry can master the requisite cookery.

Genuinely fat, old-fashioned milk is the starting-point. It has to be warmed, short of boiling, for a couple of hours’ infusion with a meaty ham-bone, a bay leaf, a nutmeg or cinnamon stick and a bit of onion. Mixed olive oil and butter start the roux, which slow, unremitting stirring thickens.

Apart from the infused milk, titrated in slow drips, no additives are necessary, except seasoning to taste. But tradition and ambition combine to recommend extra flavour in the form of very finely shredded and chopped jamón serrano, salt cod, parsley or truffles, any of which can be stirred in without prior cooking or risk to the consistency of the filling. Minced chicken has adherents but seems too insipid to me unless piqued with salt and paprika, which spoils the pearliness of the lustre inside the croquette.

The taste of my first croqueta was revelatory, faithfully accurate and invariably confirmed

When the mixture is smooth, malleable and slightly sticky it is time to chill it overnight. One can then roll it roughly into a long sausage-shape of desirable thickness for cutting into short lengths and coating in flour.

A thin film of beaten egg will make the crust of breadcumbs adhere perfectly and comprehensively. The best breadcrumbs for the purpose are finely milled from very hard, stale, pure, white rolls. Modish fancies, like panko or sweet loaves, or anything that has already been fried should be avoided.

Olive oil for the final stage of preparation should be hot but not smoking: that deep fat or rapid immolation are needed are silly myths. Frying should take about five minutes — brisk but unhurried, to achieve the last desiderata: heat that penetrates to the core of the confection, and a carapace with a touch of crunch.

Marieta deceived me when I was three, but the taste of my first croqueta was revelatory, faithfully accurate and invariably confirmed.