Michael Ruhlman (yes, that Michael Ruhlman,) has issued a challenge over on his blog: to make a BLT sandwich from scratch.
Bacon. Lettuce. Tomato. Mayo. All wedged between two doorstop sized slices of bread.
Count me in.
Fancy taking part? You have until August 28th. Plenty of time to grow the necessary items, cure the bacon and nail that bread recipe.
For more information, see Michael’s (rather excellent) blog.
Thursday, 11 June 2009
Monday, 8 June 2009
Top Ten Kitchen 'Gadgets'
When it comes down to it, I mean really comes down to it, how many ‘essential’ gadgets or pieces of kit do you have in your kitchen?
The reason I ask is because a recent piece in Economist Intelligent Life got me thinking.
It suggested that men’s love of technology stretches far beyond the garden shed or whatever hobby is the current past-time du jour and well into that domain commonly known as the kitchen.
Those of us with a ‘y’ chromosome, it suggests, can resist a new contraption (with barely one specific purpose) no more than we can resist a cold lager, staring at that specific place where a girl’s knickers ride up above their jeans or any other sweeping generalisation you would care to mention.
I’ll admit I found the piece slightly clichéd and playing up to easy stereotypes but it did crank the cogs into gear and cause some deep whirring somewhere about what items in my culinary arsenal I would regard as essential.
I’ve bought the occasional ‘dud’ – I used to work in a cookware shop for goodness’ sake, I was surrounded by extraneous kitchen paraphernalia – but have never been tempted by a mango stoner, avocado scoop or small rubber tube used to remove the skin from garlic cloves (is it honestly that difficult a job? Come on…).
But mostly what I have is very simple. And cherished. Slightly too much in some cases.
In no particular order, here are the ten most useful items any cook could hope to have in their kitchen (NB – no disclosures necessary, no payments, samples or freebies here):
1. A decent frying pan
This is a 20cm De Buyer Blue Steel (not joking) frying pan. Although it isn’t non-stick, over the last five years it has developed a glorious patina making it better than any Teflon coated pan I’ve ever had the displeasure of using. The metal handle means it can go straight into the oven – perfect for browning then roasting meats. I just need a bigger one now…
2. A good knife (or two...)
The chef’s knife is the workhorse of the kitchen, a handheld food processor. A decent hunk of German steel might just outlive you. Depending on your sword skills, they come in sizes varying from about 12cm to 24cm (and beyond). After putting it off for years and muddling on with some lightweight cheapo blades, I finally gave in a couple of months ago and invested in a Henckels. It makes me happy.
3. A steel
If your willing to spend a three figure sum on a knife, it might be a good idea to buy something to keep it sharp. Despite the numerous gadgets on the market that claim to be up to the job, nothing comes close to a traditional steel. And once a year take your knives to your friendly neighbourhood butcher, ask nicely and he’ll grind a razor sharp edge back onto them for you.
4. Tongs
Nearly anything that needs turning can be turned with these. They are like a go-go gadget arm extension.
5. Palette knife
Ideal for flipping the four per cent of things that can’t be flipped with tongs.
6. Sieve
From draining rice, pasta and vegetables to straining stocka and sauces and making smooth purees, the sieve is one of the best kitchen investments it is possible to make.
7. Wooden Spoon
My guess is that this is possibly the oldest utensil in existence (I mean in general, not this specific spoon). That is reason enough for me. It has numerous uses, is almost indestructible and can be replaced for mere pennies
8. Microplane grater
Renders all other graters redundant. Turns Parmesan cheese into billowing clouds of deliciousness and decimates carrots in seconds.
9. Le Creuset Casserole
It boils, it sears, it slow cooks like a dream. These guys have been around almost 100 years, they probably know what they are doing. If your knife doesn’t last longer than you, your Le Creuset certainly will.
10. iSi Cream Whipper
OK, OK, it’s a gadget, it’s virtually pointless and is liable to go wrong at nearly every opportunity. But I am a man and this is my one concession to the article that spawned this list. Not only will it whip cream but also allows you to create a whole raft of elBulli inspired foams, mousses, airs and other such frippery. Enormous fun.
Hark, I hear the faint rumblings of dissent. Are they deserving of a place on The List? Where is the sushi rolling mat? How could I possibly forget cake mould? No baking sheet? How is one to de-stone cherries or de-bone fish?
Put me right and join the debate. What would you rescue first from your kitchen?
The reason I ask is because a recent piece in Economist Intelligent Life got me thinking.
It suggested that men’s love of technology stretches far beyond the garden shed or whatever hobby is the current past-time du jour and well into that domain commonly known as the kitchen.
Those of us with a ‘y’ chromosome, it suggests, can resist a new contraption (with barely one specific purpose) no more than we can resist a cold lager, staring at that specific place where a girl’s knickers ride up above their jeans or any other sweeping generalisation you would care to mention.
I’ll admit I found the piece slightly clichéd and playing up to easy stereotypes but it did crank the cogs into gear and cause some deep whirring somewhere about what items in my culinary arsenal I would regard as essential.
I’ve bought the occasional ‘dud’ – I used to work in a cookware shop for goodness’ sake, I was surrounded by extraneous kitchen paraphernalia – but have never been tempted by a mango stoner, avocado scoop or small rubber tube used to remove the skin from garlic cloves (is it honestly that difficult a job? Come on…).
But mostly what I have is very simple. And cherished. Slightly too much in some cases.
In no particular order, here are the ten most useful items any cook could hope to have in their kitchen (NB – no disclosures necessary, no payments, samples or freebies here):
1. A decent frying pan
This is a 20cm De Buyer Blue Steel (not joking) frying pan. Although it isn’t non-stick, over the last five years it has developed a glorious patina making it better than any Teflon coated pan I’ve ever had the displeasure of using. The metal handle means it can go straight into the oven – perfect for browning then roasting meats. I just need a bigger one now…
2. A good knife (or two...)
The chef’s knife is the workhorse of the kitchen, a handheld food processor. A decent hunk of German steel might just outlive you. Depending on your sword skills, they come in sizes varying from about 12cm to 24cm (and beyond). After putting it off for years and muddling on with some lightweight cheapo blades, I finally gave in a couple of months ago and invested in a Henckels. It makes me happy.
3. A steel
If your willing to spend a three figure sum on a knife, it might be a good idea to buy something to keep it sharp. Despite the numerous gadgets on the market that claim to be up to the job, nothing comes close to a traditional steel. And once a year take your knives to your friendly neighbourhood butcher, ask nicely and he’ll grind a razor sharp edge back onto them for you.
4. Tongs
Nearly anything that needs turning can be turned with these. They are like a go-go gadget arm extension.
5. Palette knife
Ideal for flipping the four per cent of things that can’t be flipped with tongs.
6. Sieve
From draining rice, pasta and vegetables to straining stocka and sauces and making smooth purees, the sieve is one of the best kitchen investments it is possible to make.
7. Wooden Spoon
My guess is that this is possibly the oldest utensil in existence (I mean in general, not this specific spoon). That is reason enough for me. It has numerous uses, is almost indestructible and can be replaced for mere pennies
8. Microplane grater
Renders all other graters redundant. Turns Parmesan cheese into billowing clouds of deliciousness and decimates carrots in seconds.
9. Le Creuset Casserole
It boils, it sears, it slow cooks like a dream. These guys have been around almost 100 years, they probably know what they are doing. If your knife doesn’t last longer than you, your Le Creuset certainly will.
10. iSi Cream Whipper
OK, OK, it’s a gadget, it’s virtually pointless and is liable to go wrong at nearly every opportunity. But I am a man and this is my one concession to the article that spawned this list. Not only will it whip cream but also allows you to create a whole raft of elBulli inspired foams, mousses, airs and other such frippery. Enormous fun.
Hark, I hear the faint rumblings of dissent. Are they deserving of a place on The List? Where is the sushi rolling mat? How could I possibly forget cake mould? No baking sheet? How is one to de-stone cherries or de-bone fish?
Put me right and join the debate. What would you rescue first from your kitchen?
Friday, 5 June 2009
Eating New York: Pizza
Arriving in a new city, at night, can be an unpleasant experience.
Body clocks askew, deprived of sleep and crippled with the sort of grumpiness that can only ever be the result of being folded into an economy class seat on a long haul flight can test the mettle of even the most Zen individual.
The tiniest frustrations can cause eruptions of Pompeii-esque proportions and anger threatens to be vented on those who neither expect nor deserve it. Total strangers usually.
Even if that wicked combination doesn’t result in explosion, hunger can prove a willing and fiery catalyst.
As such, it is a good idea to find sustenance at the earliest possible opportunity. Sustenance of a homely and hearty nature. Pizza with its winning combination of dough and cheese is an excellent option.
So it was that we found ourselves on 8th Avenue close to 46th Street munching on large slices of, what at the time, tasted like, the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.
There is a persistent rumour that New York pizza is so good because of the water. Indeed, I have heard stories of West Coast Italian restaurants having water shipped over from the city in a vain attempt to re-create the characteristic dough.
With good reason. Somehow managing to tread that fine line between cracker thin Neapolitan style pizza and the thick, claggy, doughy deep crust nastiness that characterises so many bastardized versions of this classic dish, New York pizza has a light base that holds up against its own weight.
The tomato sauce has a vague sweetness that cuts through the classic garlic/oregano flavour combination. And the cheese comes in an artery-furring layer of stringy decadence that sits heavily in the stomach in the best possible way.
A dream filled sleep came quickly.
Having made pizza before, I was looking forward to the task of attempting to make this particular slice of NYC in my own kitchen.
Not only was recreating the firm, chewy texture of the base going to present difficulties, the lack of an oven that goes beyond 250 degrees C was also going to prevent me from attaining those searing temperatures required to cook the pizza in only a few minutes.
Enter a new piece of kitchen kit:
Ah, masonry – the saviour of all aspiring Italian cooks. The theory being that the scorching hot stone cooks the pizza from below as well as drying out the base – essential if you don’t want to experience the frustrating phenomenon known as ‘cheesy floppy end’. If you’ll pardon the expression.
I acquired mine from a reclamation yard for a mere seven pounds, about a third of the price of a dedicated ‘pizza stone.’
I felt quite manly asking for ‘an unglazed quarry tile’ – a phrase I’d repeated to myself for at least ten minutes before feeling confident enough to utter it out loud to a tradesman.
‘What size?’ he asked. Uh oh, rumbled. Quick say something that sounds about right. How big is a pizza?
‘Erm, twelve by twelve, if you have any.’ Phew. Situation recovered.
‘The only thing we have is (insert unintelligible building phrase here). That going to be OK.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, veneer of confidence diminishing by the nano-second.
‘What colour you after?’
Oh god, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m going to be paving any driveways with it. ‘Terracotta?’
‘Think you might be out of luck. I’ll show you what we got and see if they’re OK.’
I duly followed. ‘There you go, how’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ I said confidently, not anticipating the next question.
‘How many do you need?’
Shit. Rumbled. ‘Just one,’ I said, rather pathetically going on to explain that rather than being a skilled manual labourer, I was, in fact a fraud: an amateur chef keen to replicate the tasty morsels of pizza I’d eaten too many of on a recent fact-finding trip.
‘Oh you’re a chef? I used to be a chef. In fact my sister was the pastry chef at La Gavroche.’
Halle-freaking-lujah. No more words mumbled in a voice slightly deeper than my natural one – we had something in common. Enter a little bit of banter about food and off I went on my merry way, new toy in hand (or two – it was quite heavy).
The Dough
Step one done, it was time to tackle the dough. Here I am indebted to Jeff Varasano’s rather excellent (and comprehensive) website detailing his efforts to recreate that elusive NY slice.
Taking inspiration from this I bought some high gluten flour and started by making a poolish – a mini starter dough before making a full batch.
Add a teaspoon of dried yeast, a teaspoon of salt and a teaspoon of sugar to 70g of warm water (I used bottled) and stir in 70g of flour. Cover it with a tea towel and leave to bubble away over night.
The following morning add this to 500g of high-gluten flour and 300g of water (again, I used bottled). If you have the wrists, knead it enthusiastically for about 20 minutes or use a food mixer complete with dough hook attachment.
What should emerge is a highly elastic, quite wet, dough that should be stretchy enough to read print through (the ‘windowpane’ test). This is due to the elasticity of the gluten.
Let it rest for 15 minutes then turn out onto a floured surface and knead into a large ball. Divide it into three or four smaller balls of equal size (depending on how big you want your pizzas and how thick you like your base) and place each one into a lightly oiled container with a loosely fitting lid.
These can be kept in the fridge for anything up to a week and will improve in flavour as time goes on.
The sauce
The fresh dampness of an uncooked tomato sauce on pizza is not something I like. As such this one is cooked for about 20 minutes before making its way onto the pizza.
Drain and sieve two tins of plum tomatoes and add them to a saucepan along with a little olive oil, two cloves of garlic (finely chopped), salt, pepper and a small handful of oregano. I also added a scant teaspoon of sugar to help develop the sweetness that seemed to be so characteristic of a genuine New York Slice.
Let it simmer away and then break up the tomatoes using a wooden spoon or hand held blender if you require a smoother finish.
To cook
Crank your oven up as high as it will go. Put the slab of tile onto the rack close to the top of the oven, remembering to leave room for a rising pizza crust.
It needs to heat up for at least half an hour although I’d leave it an hour before you even think of cooking on it.
In the mean time, start to work that little ball of elastic dough into something resembling a pizza base.
This is harder than it looks as it can frustratingly spring back into shape when you least expect it. Just keep going. Avoid the temptation to use a rolling pin and don’t forget to form a slightly thicker lip around the outside of the circle.
Once the oven – and stone – is hot enough spread a generous smear of tomato sauce over the base, add a few basil leaves and sprinkle over a disgusting amount of cheese (I used a mozzarella/cheddar/parmesan combination). A few turns of the pepper mill and it’s ready to go.
Hmmm. How does one get it from its current location to the screaming hot stone without a pizza paddle? Improvise, of course.
Just make sure your pizza isn’t too big to fit on a foil-covered spade (cue ten expletive filled minutes and a comment from the GF: 'Why not just make it smaller?')
In a regular oven the pizza should take no more than six or seven minutes. About twice as long as it would in a commercial furnace but, eh, whatchoo gonna do?
And neither should you care.
Because the final result is so good.
A solid base with firm, chewy texture. A slightly sweet, garlicky sauce. And a guilty slick of salty cheese. Exactly how an authentic slice should be.
And as proof? Well, here’s the money shot.
For more of the same, why not follow me on Twitter?
Body clocks askew, deprived of sleep and crippled with the sort of grumpiness that can only ever be the result of being folded into an economy class seat on a long haul flight can test the mettle of even the most Zen individual.
The tiniest frustrations can cause eruptions of Pompeii-esque proportions and anger threatens to be vented on those who neither expect nor deserve it. Total strangers usually.
Even if that wicked combination doesn’t result in explosion, hunger can prove a willing and fiery catalyst.
As such, it is a good idea to find sustenance at the earliest possible opportunity. Sustenance of a homely and hearty nature. Pizza with its winning combination of dough and cheese is an excellent option.
So it was that we found ourselves on 8th Avenue close to 46th Street munching on large slices of, what at the time, tasted like, the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.
There is a persistent rumour that New York pizza is so good because of the water. Indeed, I have heard stories of West Coast Italian restaurants having water shipped over from the city in a vain attempt to re-create the characteristic dough.
With good reason. Somehow managing to tread that fine line between cracker thin Neapolitan style pizza and the thick, claggy, doughy deep crust nastiness that characterises so many bastardized versions of this classic dish, New York pizza has a light base that holds up against its own weight.
The tomato sauce has a vague sweetness that cuts through the classic garlic/oregano flavour combination. And the cheese comes in an artery-furring layer of stringy decadence that sits heavily in the stomach in the best possible way.
A dream filled sleep came quickly.
Having made pizza before, I was looking forward to the task of attempting to make this particular slice of NYC in my own kitchen.
Not only was recreating the firm, chewy texture of the base going to present difficulties, the lack of an oven that goes beyond 250 degrees C was also going to prevent me from attaining those searing temperatures required to cook the pizza in only a few minutes.
Enter a new piece of kitchen kit:
Ah, masonry – the saviour of all aspiring Italian cooks. The theory being that the scorching hot stone cooks the pizza from below as well as drying out the base – essential if you don’t want to experience the frustrating phenomenon known as ‘cheesy floppy end’. If you’ll pardon the expression.
I acquired mine from a reclamation yard for a mere seven pounds, about a third of the price of a dedicated ‘pizza stone.’
I felt quite manly asking for ‘an unglazed quarry tile’ – a phrase I’d repeated to myself for at least ten minutes before feeling confident enough to utter it out loud to a tradesman.
‘What size?’ he asked. Uh oh, rumbled. Quick say something that sounds about right. How big is a pizza?
‘Erm, twelve by twelve, if you have any.’ Phew. Situation recovered.
‘The only thing we have is (insert unintelligible building phrase here). That going to be OK.’
‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, veneer of confidence diminishing by the nano-second.
‘What colour you after?’
Oh god, I don’t know. It’s not like I’m going to be paving any driveways with it. ‘Terracotta?’
‘Think you might be out of luck. I’ll show you what we got and see if they’re OK.’
I duly followed. ‘There you go, how’s that?’
‘Perfect,’ I said confidently, not anticipating the next question.
‘How many do you need?’
Shit. Rumbled. ‘Just one,’ I said, rather pathetically going on to explain that rather than being a skilled manual labourer, I was, in fact a fraud: an amateur chef keen to replicate the tasty morsels of pizza I’d eaten too many of on a recent fact-finding trip.
‘Oh you’re a chef? I used to be a chef. In fact my sister was the pastry chef at La Gavroche.’
Halle-freaking-lujah. No more words mumbled in a voice slightly deeper than my natural one – we had something in common. Enter a little bit of banter about food and off I went on my merry way, new toy in hand (or two – it was quite heavy).
The Dough
Step one done, it was time to tackle the dough. Here I am indebted to Jeff Varasano’s rather excellent (and comprehensive) website detailing his efforts to recreate that elusive NY slice.
Taking inspiration from this I bought some high gluten flour and started by making a poolish – a mini starter dough before making a full batch.
Add a teaspoon of dried yeast, a teaspoon of salt and a teaspoon of sugar to 70g of warm water (I used bottled) and stir in 70g of flour. Cover it with a tea towel and leave to bubble away over night.
The following morning add this to 500g of high-gluten flour and 300g of water (again, I used bottled). If you have the wrists, knead it enthusiastically for about 20 minutes or use a food mixer complete with dough hook attachment.
What should emerge is a highly elastic, quite wet, dough that should be stretchy enough to read print through (the ‘windowpane’ test). This is due to the elasticity of the gluten.
Let it rest for 15 minutes then turn out onto a floured surface and knead into a large ball. Divide it into three or four smaller balls of equal size (depending on how big you want your pizzas and how thick you like your base) and place each one into a lightly oiled container with a loosely fitting lid.
These can be kept in the fridge for anything up to a week and will improve in flavour as time goes on.
The sauce
The fresh dampness of an uncooked tomato sauce on pizza is not something I like. As such this one is cooked for about 20 minutes before making its way onto the pizza.
Drain and sieve two tins of plum tomatoes and add them to a saucepan along with a little olive oil, two cloves of garlic (finely chopped), salt, pepper and a small handful of oregano. I also added a scant teaspoon of sugar to help develop the sweetness that seemed to be so characteristic of a genuine New York Slice.
Let it simmer away and then break up the tomatoes using a wooden spoon or hand held blender if you require a smoother finish.
To cook
Crank your oven up as high as it will go. Put the slab of tile onto the rack close to the top of the oven, remembering to leave room for a rising pizza crust.
It needs to heat up for at least half an hour although I’d leave it an hour before you even think of cooking on it.
In the mean time, start to work that little ball of elastic dough into something resembling a pizza base.
This is harder than it looks as it can frustratingly spring back into shape when you least expect it. Just keep going. Avoid the temptation to use a rolling pin and don’t forget to form a slightly thicker lip around the outside of the circle.
Once the oven – and stone – is hot enough spread a generous smear of tomato sauce over the base, add a few basil leaves and sprinkle over a disgusting amount of cheese (I used a mozzarella/cheddar/parmesan combination). A few turns of the pepper mill and it’s ready to go.
Hmmm. How does one get it from its current location to the screaming hot stone without a pizza paddle? Improvise, of course.
Just make sure your pizza isn’t too big to fit on a foil-covered spade (cue ten expletive filled minutes and a comment from the GF: 'Why not just make it smaller?')
In a regular oven the pizza should take no more than six or seven minutes. About twice as long as it would in a commercial furnace but, eh, whatchoo gonna do?
And neither should you care.
Because the final result is so good.
A solid base with firm, chewy texture. A slightly sweet, garlicky sauce. And a guilty slick of salty cheese. Exactly how an authentic slice should be.
And as proof? Well, here’s the money shot.
For more of the same, why not follow me on Twitter?
Tuesday, 2 June 2009
Barbecued Beef Short Ribs
[Project ‘Recreate New York Food’ to commence shortly. This is just shameless filler whilst body clocks return to normal and things like mountains of washing get done].
Forget everything you think you know about the rules of the kitchen. For just a few minutes.
This is just plain wrong. It shouldn’t work. Nearly every bodily fibre was screaming, shouting, balling at me to stop and obey the bloody rules. This method flies in the face of conventional cooking methods and tickles the scrotum of classical cuisine before running away and hanging out with the cool kids.
There are some cuts of meat that are user-friendly. They are fast, boneless and easy. The chicken breast. The fillet steak. The pork loin. A sprinkling of seasoning and a quick searing over a high heat and you have a tasty morsel ready for consumption.
Then there are those that need a little more care and attention. And time. Lots and lots of time. In general these are the cuts that I cherish (secretly I think most cooks do, at least those that really love their food).
They are the ones that are left on the bone, that need to be braised in liquid (wine is good. Always) until they are meltingly tender and rich, delicious and unctuous. Or roasted s.l.o.w.l.y.
But they are winter meats.
Now that the sun is here why would you want a hearty stew or daube Provençal?
As such, I thought the short ribs I have would have to remain in the freezer until the clouds roll in, the temperature drops and the desire for rich sauces and mashed potatoes returns once more.
Not so.
I picked up a copy of Gourmet magazine at JFK airport (‘The Grill Issue').
In it was a wonderful photo essay about a Mexican barbecue supper complete with recipes for a multitude of tasty treats. But one in particular stood out because it made me scratch my noggin and mutter: ‘There’s no way that could work. It goes against everything I know and cheekily tickles the scrotum of classical cuisine.’
Beef short ribs. Unmarinated. Unbraised. Unadorned. Just seasoned with salt and pepper then cooked over hot coals and torn apart by enthusiastic teeth. How could you not want to try that?
One of the best things about barbecue cookery is the purity of it. It’s as close most of us get to recreating the ancestral methods that live on in the collective memory. It’s just you and the fire, the ideal conditions for letting your inner Neanderthal out for an hour or two.
Which is great. And I’m all for delicately spiced fish wrapped in banana leaves or long marinated pork chops or skewers of vegetables drizzled in olive oil. But to really get to the heart of the purity of outdoor cooking all you need is a great hunk of meat.
If you’re going to do this, you might as well go all the way and release the caveman.
Enter the beef. Bones and all.
Seasoned in advance (ignore the hokum about only seasoning meat milliseconds before you are about to cook it), they were left at room temperature until the barbecue was seriously hot (hold your hand the coals about five inches up – if you have to move within 1-2 seconds, you’re at the right heat). Then it was time to cook them.
Where American short ribs tend to be cut across the rib, the English butcher them differently, giving single bones rather than a series of them dotted through the meat, much like the equivalent cut on a pig. It matters not. They need about three or four minutes on each side to really get that tasty browning before they can be moved to a cooler part of the barbecue to cook through.
Leave them for about fifteen minutes, turning occasionally. You have a lot of leeway with these bad boys. A steak can overcook in just a couple of minutes. These butch fellas can take it, begging for more. It’s like watching the cast of High School Musical take on a team of Jack Bauers (oh, I would give a minor appendage to witness that).
Once cooked leave them to rest for 10-15 minutes (absolutely freaking essential) – just the right time to dish up whatever it is you would like to accompany your feast. Salad? Perhaps not the best option. I’d go for beer. And maybe a mound of potatoes. Concessionary veg optional.
Season the meat again – just a little turn of black pepper and some sea salt and dig in. This isn’t dainty food. Use of hands is not just recommended, it is mandatory. The taste is incredible. I’ve never had a steak that tasted as good as these. Honestly. Not a single steak has ever come close. The flavour is intensely meaty, packed full of umami and downright deliciousness.
If you’re used to meat that is so tender it may as well have been pre-chewed then these will come as a shock. They offer up some resistance (hardly surprising considering they are the Jack Bauer of the food world) but in a really satisfying way.
I don’t want my food to fall apart in my mouth. My incisors and molars evolved for a purpose. Precisely this purpose: for tearing off mouthfuls of completely delicious beef, still on the bone and tasting exactly like beef should.
Naturally, I cooked too much. The rest were left over night then sliced thinly, still pink, to go into wraps the following day with some spicy beans, spinach, guacamole and chillis.
Anthony Bourdain has a term for food like this: It’s the sort of food that you would only serve to friends, and people you already know you are going to like. Put your inner sceptic to sleep for just one night, invite over some people you know will appreciate this (vegetarians need not apply) and make a long, long evening of it.
For more meaty mouthfuls, follow me on Twitter
Forget everything you think you know about the rules of the kitchen. For just a few minutes.
This is just plain wrong. It shouldn’t work. Nearly every bodily fibre was screaming, shouting, balling at me to stop and obey the bloody rules. This method flies in the face of conventional cooking methods and tickles the scrotum of classical cuisine before running away and hanging out with the cool kids.
There are some cuts of meat that are user-friendly. They are fast, boneless and easy. The chicken breast. The fillet steak. The pork loin. A sprinkling of seasoning and a quick searing over a high heat and you have a tasty morsel ready for consumption.
Then there are those that need a little more care and attention. And time. Lots and lots of time. In general these are the cuts that I cherish (secretly I think most cooks do, at least those that really love their food).
They are the ones that are left on the bone, that need to be braised in liquid (wine is good. Always) until they are meltingly tender and rich, delicious and unctuous. Or roasted s.l.o.w.l.y.
But they are winter meats.
Now that the sun is here why would you want a hearty stew or daube Provençal?
As such, I thought the short ribs I have would have to remain in the freezer until the clouds roll in, the temperature drops and the desire for rich sauces and mashed potatoes returns once more.
Not so.
I picked up a copy of Gourmet magazine at JFK airport (‘The Grill Issue').
In it was a wonderful photo essay about a Mexican barbecue supper complete with recipes for a multitude of tasty treats. But one in particular stood out because it made me scratch my noggin and mutter: ‘There’s no way that could work. It goes against everything I know and cheekily tickles the scrotum of classical cuisine.’
Beef short ribs. Unmarinated. Unbraised. Unadorned. Just seasoned with salt and pepper then cooked over hot coals and torn apart by enthusiastic teeth. How could you not want to try that?
One of the best things about barbecue cookery is the purity of it. It’s as close most of us get to recreating the ancestral methods that live on in the collective memory. It’s just you and the fire, the ideal conditions for letting your inner Neanderthal out for an hour or two.
Which is great. And I’m all for delicately spiced fish wrapped in banana leaves or long marinated pork chops or skewers of vegetables drizzled in olive oil. But to really get to the heart of the purity of outdoor cooking all you need is a great hunk of meat.
If you’re going to do this, you might as well go all the way and release the caveman.
Enter the beef. Bones and all.
Seasoned in advance (ignore the hokum about only seasoning meat milliseconds before you are about to cook it), they were left at room temperature until the barbecue was seriously hot (hold your hand the coals about five inches up – if you have to move within 1-2 seconds, you’re at the right heat). Then it was time to cook them.
Where American short ribs tend to be cut across the rib, the English butcher them differently, giving single bones rather than a series of them dotted through the meat, much like the equivalent cut on a pig. It matters not. They need about three or four minutes on each side to really get that tasty browning before they can be moved to a cooler part of the barbecue to cook through.
Leave them for about fifteen minutes, turning occasionally. You have a lot of leeway with these bad boys. A steak can overcook in just a couple of minutes. These butch fellas can take it, begging for more. It’s like watching the cast of High School Musical take on a team of Jack Bauers (oh, I would give a minor appendage to witness that).
Once cooked leave them to rest for 10-15 minutes (absolutely freaking essential) – just the right time to dish up whatever it is you would like to accompany your feast. Salad? Perhaps not the best option. I’d go for beer. And maybe a mound of potatoes. Concessionary veg optional.
Season the meat again – just a little turn of black pepper and some sea salt and dig in. This isn’t dainty food. Use of hands is not just recommended, it is mandatory. The taste is incredible. I’ve never had a steak that tasted as good as these. Honestly. Not a single steak has ever come close. The flavour is intensely meaty, packed full of umami and downright deliciousness.
If you’re used to meat that is so tender it may as well have been pre-chewed then these will come as a shock. They offer up some resistance (hardly surprising considering they are the Jack Bauer of the food world) but in a really satisfying way.
I don’t want my food to fall apart in my mouth. My incisors and molars evolved for a purpose. Precisely this purpose: for tearing off mouthfuls of completely delicious beef, still on the bone and tasting exactly like beef should.
Naturally, I cooked too much. The rest were left over night then sliced thinly, still pink, to go into wraps the following day with some spicy beans, spinach, guacamole and chillis.
Anthony Bourdain has a term for food like this: It’s the sort of food that you would only serve to friends, and people you already know you are going to like. Put your inner sceptic to sleep for just one night, invite over some people you know will appreciate this (vegetarians need not apply) and make a long, long evening of it.
For more meaty mouthfuls, follow me on Twitter
Monday, 1 June 2009
New York - Where to begin?
Times Sq. New York, New York – May 27th 2009
This is the greatest smear of humanity I’ve ever seen.
All around me is a barrage of illumination. Colour. Smells. Flavours. Noises. So many noises. A bottomless orchestral attack.
Fading chalk drawings cover tyre treads. Light bulb fireworks explode from ground to sky. Wide-eyed photographers catch single moments. Smoke from streetcart barbecues drifts over the road. Leaflets passed from hand to hand find their way quickly to the floor. ‘Cheap tickets. Broadway tickets.’ ‘You like stand-up comedy? Wanna see a show?’ ‘Happy hour all day, all cocktails half price, all day today.’
I’m sat on a plastic chair, on Broadway, in the middle of Times Square. This section of the road has been closed to cars for 48 hours. Around me is the greatest multi-sensory onslaught I’ve ever experienced.
This rich palate of humanity shifting through a single space dedicated solely to consumption. In all its forms. I find it fitting that this was once the city’s red light district – a better metaphor than I could ever have come up with.
It’s my last few minutes trying to get an understanding of this place before we have to take the Subway in the vague direction of JFK airport. And I can’t. There is no unified whole. No single defining factor. No culture nor cuisine unique to here. Just here.
And I love it. Because that is how to define New York: by its impossibility. By its vast richness. By its indefinability.
Normally over five days you’re able to begin the process of unravelling a city. I’m delighted I haven’t been able to.
The delicious variety of New York stretches to the food too. It is elusive, obvious, effusive and subtle. Characterised by nothing more than its globally disparate origins. This is a true food-loving city in every sense where you can eat your way around the world around the clock.
So that’s what I did.
But rather than relay a tired list full of information yet devoid of flavour, I’m going to take a slightly different approach.
In an effort to pin down what really characterises the cuisine of the Big Apple, I’m going to try and recreate each glorious food moment in words and in the kitchen. Burgers, fries, pizzas, knish, pork buns and all.
And it would be an honour if you would join me on this little adventure through Central Park, Little Italy, The Village, SoHo, NoHo all the way down to the Lower East Side. Come on, it’ll be fun. We might even have time for a hot dog.
For more, follow me on Twitter
This is the greatest smear of humanity I’ve ever seen.
All around me is a barrage of illumination. Colour. Smells. Flavours. Noises. So many noises. A bottomless orchestral attack.
Fading chalk drawings cover tyre treads. Light bulb fireworks explode from ground to sky. Wide-eyed photographers catch single moments. Smoke from streetcart barbecues drifts over the road. Leaflets passed from hand to hand find their way quickly to the floor. ‘Cheap tickets. Broadway tickets.’ ‘You like stand-up comedy? Wanna see a show?’ ‘Happy hour all day, all cocktails half price, all day today.’
I’m sat on a plastic chair, on Broadway, in the middle of Times Square. This section of the road has been closed to cars for 48 hours. Around me is the greatest multi-sensory onslaught I’ve ever experienced.
This rich palate of humanity shifting through a single space dedicated solely to consumption. In all its forms. I find it fitting that this was once the city’s red light district – a better metaphor than I could ever have come up with.
It’s my last few minutes trying to get an understanding of this place before we have to take the Subway in the vague direction of JFK airport. And I can’t. There is no unified whole. No single defining factor. No culture nor cuisine unique to here. Just here.
And I love it. Because that is how to define New York: by its impossibility. By its vast richness. By its indefinability.
Normally over five days you’re able to begin the process of unravelling a city. I’m delighted I haven’t been able to.
The delicious variety of New York stretches to the food too. It is elusive, obvious, effusive and subtle. Characterised by nothing more than its globally disparate origins. This is a true food-loving city in every sense where you can eat your way around the world around the clock.
So that’s what I did.
But rather than relay a tired list full of information yet devoid of flavour, I’m going to take a slightly different approach.
In an effort to pin down what really characterises the cuisine of the Big Apple, I’m going to try and recreate each glorious food moment in words and in the kitchen. Burgers, fries, pizzas, knish, pork buns and all.
And it would be an honour if you would join me on this little adventure through Central Park, Little Italy, The Village, SoHo, NoHo all the way down to the Lower East Side. Come on, it’ll be fun. We might even have time for a hot dog.
For more, follow me on Twitter
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