One man. One cow. One year.
Stressed about Thanksgiving?
Imagine inviting arguably the greatest chef on Earth to your house for dinner.
So you could cook dishes from his cookbook.
For him.
A writer for Esquire did precisely that — inviting Thomas Keller over, and cooking for him from his own cookbook. You should read about it here.
In other news, this will be my last post before the Thanksgiving holiday.
Those of us here at Year of the Cow wish you a happy, healthy and delicious Day of the Turkey.
See you in December.
j
*If ten hours is quick.
Good morning, internets.
I haven’t posted in a bit. We took a weekend trip to see sequoias, and then caught a truly gnarly stomach flu. I was incapacitated for a fair length of time and was able to neither cook nor eat.
However I did have a lot of lying-motionless-trying-not-to-breathe time, and used it thinking up new taglines for NyQuil.
“NyQuil: Knocks your ass out.”
“NyQuil: Sit down. Sit down NOW.”
“NyQuil: I said what? When did I say that? To your face? Really?”
I’m back up and running now. And this weekend looks to be a jumbo tub of crazy due to the upcoming holiday. So I’m gonna use this Friday morning to get dinner ready for Friday night. Then we can nosh on it all weekend.
I’m braising a chuck roast. I’m calling it a quick roast because it’s Friday morning before I head into the office. I have to get toddler, dog, and me ready for the day, and I don’t have a lot of time.
Chuck is the shoulder primal of the beef critter. Moves the animal around, works all the time. Very tough, but very flavorful. A long, moist cooking method will convert that connective tissue (which makes it tough) into gelatin (which makes it delicious), while preserving the roast’s abundance of beefy loveliness.
I’ve done a very similar dish before. This time, I’m going to try to improve on it.
On to the show.
Mise: Use your imagination. Seriously, I’m up against it here.
Toddler has yogurt and toast in the next room. He’s good.
Dog has succumbed to gravity. She’s good.
TGIF.
I chop a quick mirepoix. I’m using red onions because I’m feeling frisky.
I put some beef stock on to simmer.
I also slice two cloves garlic. Further, I have some green onions I got at the farmer’s market a few days back. I add them to the mix.
On to the roast. Generous amounts of salt and pepper, and, per my friend Eben’s suggestion, a liberal dusting with flour.
Quick sear on all sides.
Shoes on toddler. Food for dog. Shoes for me.
When the roast has a good sear, I set it momentarily on a plate and tent it with foil.
This is going to cook all day, so I can’t use an oven. I’m going crockpot with it, like Grandma used to do.
Veggies into crockpot, with enough stock to cover. I also toss in some ground cumin, ground thyme, and a bay leaf.
Roast in on top of the veg, and more stock. Enough to cover three-quarters of the way up.
Yes, I added more stock than this.
Pot set to low for ten hours.
I set up a quick series of booby traps and tiger pits on the front edge of the counter to make sure my dog doesn’t try to eat before I do.
Gotta go. Good morning, LA traffic.
–
On my drive home, I get a text from my wife: “It smells amazing in here.”
When I get home Friday evening, I can smell my roast from the yard. In a good way.
It’s been ten hours, so my roast should be more than ready. A quick peek, and yes. It’s falling apart. We’re in good shape.
I prep some polenta with some Parmesan. Another Eben suggestion from last time I braised chuck.
I pull the meat, stash on a plate, and tent it with foil. Set aside.
Cooking liquid into a sauce pan. Reduce, reduce, reduce. Strain, et monter au beurre.
Plate: a scoop of Parmesan polenta, a few slices of beef, and a partial ladle of sauce.
Saucy.
Verdict: Okay, did I mention I could smell this from the yard? I was a little more aggressive with the cumin, and it worked out well.
I tried to improve on my last effort, and I think I succeeded. I managed my liquids a little better, and tweaked my spices a bit to the positive. And Eben’s cheesy polenta suggestion was a stroke of genius.
The meat was unctuous and lovely, with just a few savory notes from the onions and the herbs.
Braising in stock rather than wine was fascinating… it put the beef more out front, I think. In my previous effort, the acidity and the tannins of the wine were always lurking and commenting on the beef. Here, the beef was presented almost without counterpoint, with the veggies and the spices providing some nuance.
Then, paired with the parm polenta, hell to the yes. The sauce with the cheesy starchd was a big hit all around.
The Wife Says: She thought it was the best thing I’d made in a long time. I’ll take that.
Next up: Thanksgiving prep.
Hey, Internets. Miss me?
Things have been a little madcap around the Stone household, and so I apologize for my absence from these pages ‘lo this past week and change.
But it’s time to get back to it. My wife’s brother is in town to hit a Phish show, and he’s a great guy. So despite his (completely understandable) desire to rock some In-N-Out while he’s in town, we gotta do a celebratory steak while he’s under our roof. We are not barbarians.
Prep School Hippie.
I settle on New York Strip, which is well-represented on these pages. It’s off the short loin of the beast, which doesn’t do a lot of work moving the critter around. For more, see this entry.
However, steak is two things: Lovely to the bite, and boring to the site. Who wants to read about steak again? I’ve done it.
So the trick is to make this one a little special. Let’s head to the Larousse.
The Larousse Gastronomique lists eighteen sauces and four butters appropriate for grilled steak. I’m not really interested in serving this particular steak with a butter, so I peruse the sauces.
Bearnaise? Lovely, but time consuming. This is a weeknight.
Bordelaise? Not tonight, dear.
Barbecue? Really, Larousse? Not on a grilled steak. Philistines.
That rules out the B’s.
I settle on Sauce Robert. It’s one of the oldest sauces in the classical French repertoire – a version of it appears in French cookbooks as early as 1651. Escoffier was a big fan.
Who’s Robert? No one knows. Theories abound. Various Roberts have been proposed and discredited.
Likewise, no one seem to agree on how to make this sauce. I’ve found three different recipes in my research. Some with vinegar, some without. Some finished with a demiglace, some without. Since the Larousse Gastronomique is the culinary reference of record, I’m using theirs.
The mise:
Most of this is for the sauce. Let’s get to it.
I finely dice two onions, and deposit them in a saucepan with a little butter and a pinch o’ salt. When they start to take on some color, I add a tablespoon of flour to the mixture. Soon, the onions are brown and lovely.
My wife and brother-in-law comment that whatever I’m cooking smells amazing. That’s onions in butter, baby. Jump back.
My kung fu is the best.
Once those are a satisfying degree of brown, I add 300 ml white wine and 200 ml beef stock. (Yay, metric!)
Wine and stock and base ten measurements.
No call for demiglace, and vinegar is listed as an alternate. I cast a wary eye, Larousse.
Simmer, simmer. Reduce, reduce. At the end, I add a little mustard.
Steaks are thawed. A canola oil massage, salt, pepper. To the grill.
The cold, cold grill.
I am an idiot.
Elsewhere on these pages, I’ve confidently cackled “That’s why I keep a tank in reserve!” Well, that’s the one I just kicked.
There’s no pain like propane.
Time to turn this meal on its head.
Plan B
Back inside with the meat – on with the broiler.
When the mercury’s north of 450, I put the meat beneath the heat.
Last time I did NY Strip, I was looking at medium at two minutes. (Go go gadget blog. It’s one of the joys of having a record of previous meals that I can look that up.) For medium-rare, I’ll shoot for 1:30 per side.
Tick tick tick, flip. Tick tick tick, done. Five minutes to rest.
Check the sauce… simmering nicely on a back burner. Good to go.
Call me Bob.
The sauce goes in small compotes on the side, in case people dislike my sauceperimentation.
My wife knocks together a quick vinaigrette over a simple salad, and we pair with some good bread and a nice syrah.
Verdict?
Well, there’s nothing like a grilled steak. And sadly, this was nothing like a grilled steak. It may be my particular oven, but the hard crust of maillard-y goodness never fully materialized. The center was spot-on medium rare, however, so all was not lost.
The sauce Robert turned out well. Tangy and slightly acidic. It’s traditionally a sauce for grilled pork, and I can definitely see how it’d shine in a porcine environment. It was not out of place on our steaks, however.
In all, a slightly suboptimal NY Strip with a tasty sauce and fresh veggies is still a pretty darn good meal.
The Wife Says: Meh. She didn’t giggle and clap like when I do these on the grill, but nor did she clasp her throat and slip beneath the table. Either my broiler is terrible, or broiling steaks in general is suboptimal. I have a hunch it’s the former. In either case, I won’t be broiling steaks in the future.
Now I’m off to buy some propane.
Guten tag, internet.
I first visited Germany in the summer of 1998. I was alone, armed only with phrases that would get me beaten to ein pulp if used in polite society. In Munich, I befriended a Canadian dental hygienist with a large purse, and we boosted two massive beer steins from the Hofbrauhaus in a move that sounded like a good idea after several hours at the Hofbrauhaus.
I returned to Munich in autumn of 2009. This time I was accompanied by my lovely wife and larger ambitions. Among them, avoid the damn Hofbrauhaus. This ambition, at least, was largely realized. We rented bikes and saw much more than I’d been able to see on foot the first time around. We stayed in a lovely hotel, visited with great friends who now live in Germany, and had a wonderful time.
However, we were not able to participate in Oktoberfest, which began in Munich the week after we left. I’m back in Cali now, and the jetlag has dissipated. So I’m going to do up my own Oktoberfest oktober-feast.
I’m putting together what is essentially Bavaria’s national dish – sauerbraten, kartoffelkloesse, and red cabbage with apples (which I don’t know the german word for). Sauerbraten is a roast from the bottom round, marinated for some large number of days in vinegar, then braised and served with a sweet sauce made from the braising liquid. Kartoffelkloesse are potato dumplings – a traditional Bavarian side dish. The red cabbage is sauteed with tart apples and tossed with vinegar and sugar. Also very traditional.
Recipes are here, here, and here (for the red cabbage).
Today, I’ll be braising a rump roast. It’s cut from the top end of the hindquarter, on the bottom round.The bottom round is the outside portion of the rear leg of the bovine. (The top round is the inside bit.) It’s called the bottom round, because when the primal is laid on the butcher’s table, it’s done with the outside on the bottom. Hence, “bottom” round.
This cut does a lot of work and has a lot of connective tissue, which is perfect for our braising aspirations.
If I do Oktoberfest alone, oompah bands everywhere will shed fat, salty tears for their wayward American cousins. So we’re inviting our friends Andy and Jen along for the festivities. This is exciting in a couple of ways. First, we haven’t seen them in a bit, so it’ll be nice to catch up. Second, I’m cooking for other people. People I like. People who don’t owe me anything and may or may not lie convincingly if I wreck this meal. So I need to be on top of my game.
Which is why my game began Thursday. I pulled a rump roast from the iron box in my backyard, and seared it. Then I began the three-day marination. Water, cider vinegar, red wine vinegar, an onion, a carrot, two bay leaves, some cloves, some juniper berries, and some mustard into the big cast iron casserole dish that may be familiar to regular readers of these missives.
At 1p on Sunday, I pull it, add some sugar to the liquid, and stash it in my oven at 325.
This meal has sides that are fairly integral to the experience, and one of them will take a lot of work. So I get started on my potato dumplings as soon as the roast goes in, boiling two large russet potatoes, cooling them, peeling them, and ricing them with a fork. (Which, by the way, is much better than forking them with some rice. People get the wrong idea.)
Riced is nice.
Into the fridge to cool fully. Meanwhile, I dice some bread into cubes about a centimeter on a side, and brown them in a mixture of butter and olive oil.
Potatoes cooled and riced, I add some salt, freshly-grated nutmeg, AP flour and cornstarch to make a dough. It’s a little tacky, so I add a touch more flour. Finally, an egg goes in as an additional binder.
I roll the dough out into balls. I get ten out of the batch. That should be about perfect. I put one of my browned bread-cubes into the center of each, and munch on the rest because I made too many. Math is fun. Stay in school, kids.
Now here’s where you can tell this dish is German, and not American. My Yankee instinct is to heat a load of peanut oil to about 350, and fry these little dumplings until they’re golden brown and delicious. But that isn’t in the cards for this dish.
These little guys are to be boiled, for ten-ish minutes per batch of four. They float to the top when they’re done, which is kinda a slick little indicator.
Rise, my dumplings...
While those are working, I start on my my final side. Out comes the mandoline, and shred goes the cabbage.
Pretty red cabbage ribbons head into a lidded skillet with salt, butter, sugar, and cider vinegar. (Vinegar! It’s what’s for dinner.)
Fifteen-ish minutes, and I pull it off the heat.
Dumplings are resting quite happily under a warm, damp towel. Roast and cabbage are pretty much done… they just need a final procedure apiece before plating, which won’t happen until my people arrive, and they’re running a few minutes late. I’m quietly pleased that everything is on schedule. This is a rarity.
I have a few minutes to kill, so here’s a picture of my dog.
And I helped!
Andy and Jen! Great to see ‘em. Go time
Sliced apple into the cabbage with a tablespoon of flour over medium heat for a little sautee and thickening action.
The roast comes out, and I stash it under foil in my microwave/holding area. The recipe calls for reducing the sauce with the help of a handful of crushed gingersnap cookies. I dig this recipe.
Sauce reduced, and we’re in business. Cabbage is done, dumplings are done, roast is rested. Plate.
Verdict: Eminently edible, and definitely the best plating I’ve presented on these pages.
The roast was especially “beefy,” and the sour of the vinegar was nicely offset by the sweet notes in the sauce. However, the roast was ever so slightly drier than I would have preferred. The dumplings turned out very well. I also would have preferred a little more crispness in the cabbage, but it wasn’t a dealbreaker, and the flavor was tart and lovely. All in all, I call it a success. Add a nice marzen bier, and we’re golden.
The Wife Says: Looked great on the plate. Agrees that the roast was a tad dry, but the sauce and the dumplings made up for it.
But here’s the thing – a meal is much more than the sum of it’s parts. It’s an event. An experience. A rest from toil (until the dishes pile up), and a pause for reflection. A happy progression of moments that allow us to chat, to drink, to laugh, and to taste the fruit of a day’s labor. Those elements are the hallmarks of a great meal, of which good food is only a part.
And on one fall Sunday, we were able to share a meal with good friends, catch up, and linger over the dusk of another fading weekend.
I’ll take it.
Next up: L.A. friends, you’re on notice.
Good afternoon, interwebs. Great to rap at ya.
It’s autumn here in the City of Angels, and the signs are everywhere. People wear scarves in fifty degree weather. Schools and civic groups begin to think about importing snow-making machines. And high above, it’s vaguely overcast. Maybe. If you squint.
I’m a Kansas kid and I love the fall, so I’ll take it when I can get it. My family and I went on a long bike ride yesterday in Santa Barbara, and I had to put a hoodie on over my t-shirt. I’ll take it.
Because it’s fall, we’re feeling like comfort good. But which? Is it cold enough for a stew? Chilly enough to knock out some Beef Bourginon? I know Los Angeles thins the blood, but I need to save the culinary big guns for when I really need it.
Thankfully, the Grassfed Gourmet cookbook has some options. I decide on some chili.
There are as many chili recipes out there as there are DNA sequences. Frequently, they call for ground beef. I’m not really interested in using ground beef today. I have some time and effort to spare. So I find a recipe in the Grassfed Gourmet that interests me.
It calls for “stew meat,” which I have and have used in this space before. However, it also calls for bones and/or oxtails. Fascinating. I’m saving my oxtails for something special, but I have plenty of stew meat and bones.
Plus, it calls for beer, biscuits and (weirdly) turnips. I’m onboard. Let’s see what you’re all about, Turnip Chili.
The mise:
Note the root veggies on the right.
The recipe calls for 1.5 pounds of meat in any combination of stew meat, oxtails, and soup bones. I have stew meat in one pound increments, so I have a half pound to do something or nothing with. I vote something.
I find a big soup bone that isn’t really suitable for roasting for marrow (go go gadget future plans!), and that weighs about a half pound. Ish.
One of these things is not like the other.
I dust everything involved in seasoned flour.
All the meat gets a quick sear in olive oil, including the bone. Set aside.
More olive oil, and the onion goes in for a sweat.
A little more olive oil, and in go the diced carrots and turnip.
My recipe calls for three carrots. My veggie delivery service this week provided peeled-and-washed baby carrots. I estimate.
Close enough for jazz.
And the turnip is still just weird to me.
Onions are just starting to brown. Back in with the meat and the bone.
In goes a can of beer, enough beef stock to cover, thyme, and a couple of bay leaves.
Boil, reduce to simmer, cover.
An hour and forty-five later, and the meat chunks are soft and lovely. I pull the bone, and throw together the rough biscuit dough for the topping. After I apply it, I stash the pot uncovered in the oven.
Fifteen more minutes, and everything is golden brown and lovely.
I can get down.
Plate.
Ah, fall.
Verdict: Some number out of some larger number. Frankly, I’m not where to start on this one.
First, it was lovely. The meat was braised nicely, the beef flavor was pronounced, and the biscuit was, quite frankly, a show-stopper. And my toddler son devoured it by the spoonful fistful.
For good or ill, I was not aware of any particular turnip presence.
But chili? Really? I wouldn’t call that. I’d call it a nicely done beef stew topped with biscuits.
Further, either my heat was a tad high, or the biscuits absorbed a fair bit of the liquid beneath them. Because the biscuits didn’t so much float on the “chili,” so much as they rested on it.
Still, if you’re looking for comfort food on something resembling a fall day, this is a fine choice.
The Wife Says: If you’re expecting competition-style Terlingua chili? 5 out of 10 peppers. She thought it had more in common texture-wise with stuffing than with chili.
However, if you’re interested in a hearty and fulfilling fall meal that’ll make the house smell delightful… 9 out of 10. It was delicious and satisfying, it just didn’t resemble her concept of chili.
However, I’d make this again. The beef really shone. And if I massaged it a bit, I think I could manage the liquid content better so that it didn’t remind anyone of stuffing.
The Son Says : Ten! But that’s because that’s the highest he can count, and he’s pretty excited about it.
Is this a turnip? In chili? Really?
I would, and will, make this again.
Next up: Everything goes all spangles and tarts.
