First, welcomes and salutations to my new readers! I appreciate your stopping by. If you have any request or suggestions, please don’t hesitate.
Second, please forgive the brevity of this post. As referenced elsewhere, I’m just back from a whirlwind tour through Germany and the Czech Republic. We had a fantastic time, but now I’m jetlagged to within an inch of my life. I’m writing this from the periphery of a temporally-induced coma. Papi tired. Must sleep.
In related news, I picked up a couple of new ideas I can’t wait to try on this blog. The first was a crossrib roast with potato dumplings from Der Pschorr, a Bavarian brewhouse overlooking the Viktualienmarkt in Munich. The second was a stellar braised oxtail with truffle tagliolini by David Šašek of the restaurant Coda in Prague. Look for those on these pages soon.
Twenty four hours from now, I’ll be in Prague. I have a lot to do before I leave, so forgive me in advance for my brevity.
While my wife and I are in the Czech Republic, my mother-in-law will be here in town looking after our son. It’s really nice of her. So the least I can do is cook something nice for her before we leave.
It’s a busy day, so dinner can’t require a lot of fuss. My wife’s been craving ribs, and that fits the bill. But the MiL is in town, so it has to work the first time. No time for chucksperimentation.
So for fool-proof, I’m turning to Craig “Meathead” Goldwyn. When I made back ribs I used his Big Bad Beef Rub, and it turned out really well. His site has some great pointers on Texas-style short ribs. I happen to have some great short ribs, so I think that’s the order of the day.
I won’t recreate his site here. Sufficed to say, I encourage you to check it out.
I still have some of his Big Bad Beef Rub, but I make some more just in case, while I let the ribs thaw.
Ribs thawed, I pull them from the package. Here’s my first surprise of the day – they’re tiny. I expected a five-ish inch rib. These are one and a half to two inches. Maybe that’s why they call ‘em short. But they have a huge pillow of meat on top.
My ribs are already trimmed. I give them a quick once-over for silverskin or other nastiness, and don’t really find any. Nice. I have Czech spoken language tapes to cram. A quick pat dry, I separate them and rub with canola.
Mise:
Then the rub.
I let ‘em chillax while I bring the grill up to speed. Meanwhile, I mow the lawn. Lest my neighbors think squatters have moved in.
Yard re-spiffed, it’s almost go-time on the grill. Per Meathead’s advice, I’m using two disposable roasting pans of water to act as heat sinks under the grates of my grill. This”ll do two things. First, they’ll act as a buffer between the heat source (my burner) and the food, ensuring that the heat is very indirect. Second, they will themselves radiate heat in a uniform, even pattern. Neat trick.
Also, I’m smoking with chunk wood, rather than chips. Today, it’s apple. I haven’t done much with fruit wood – I usually use hickory or mesquite – so I’m excited. I’ve made some bitter Q with mesquite, so I’m excited about working with a mellower wood. Also, I haven’t done much with chunk. I think I’m going to like it, because I usually blow through chips before the food is done, and wind up having to use more.
I stash the chunks under the grates on a little foil platform.
Alright. Grill’s ready. Meat on, bone side down.
Now, we wait.
I study. “Ještě jednou, prosím…” Yeah. Czech is crazy hard.
Three hours later, I check the ribs. I wanna look earlier, but like it says on Craig’s site: “If you’re looking, you aren’t cooking.” The little guys are done… that is, the ribs an inch or so thick. The rest sit tight.
Friends, these little guys are gooood.
Cornbread, glazed carrots, and roasted cauliflower. And, like, a bite o’ ribs. My son has to go to bed.
An hour later, the rest are done.
Verdict: Dayum! These are some stupid-good ribs. Smoky and slightly spicy, with far more meat than the back ribs had going on. And four hours in, they’re falling off the bone. This is what I was looking for.
The Wife Says: “These are the finest ribs I’ve tasted in my time on this earth. My whole life has led up to this.” – in her head. Out loud, she says, “Pack, dummy.”
The Mother-in-Law says: “Yummy yum yum. Somehow no other phrase cuts it.” And also, in my head, “You can stay married to my daughter.”
First, a thank you to those of you who wrote in with your beef suggestions. It sounds like people want to see some offal. I’ll get on it.
But not yet. I got another request, this one from my wife. And since she knows where I sleep, I do what she asks. And she asked for machaca.
Actually, she asked for spicy shredded beef of some variety for use in tacos and enchiladas. That’s machaca. (Take away the H, and it’s a 2006 political gaffe. Different beast. But I digress.)
Historically, machaca is a dried and preserved meat, kinda like beef jerky. When a cook uses it, they rehydrate it somewhat, pound the hell out of it to tenderize, and shred it.
I’m not trying to preserve this meat, so I don’t have to dry it. I can achieve a similar effect by braising it.
And by “it,” I mean chuck. I’m using a chuck roast – a roast cut from the chuck primal, or shoulder, of the beast.
The chuck primal does a lot of work moving the animal around, and so it has a lot of connective tissue. Since I’m braising it, all the connective tissue in the meat will have plenty of time to convert to delicious gelatin throughout the long, slow, moist cooking process. The braise, therefore, favors cheaper, tougher cuts of meat with more connective tissue – like chuck. But “cheaper” does not mean “less delicious.” The last time I used chuck on this blog, I well and truly wrecked it. I’m interested to see how it turns out when I don’t flamboyantly destroy a quality piece of meat.
Friday, I zip home and whip up a quick marinade. Worstershire, lime juice, garlic, pepper, cumin and some canned Chipotle in Adobo Sauce. That stuff is magic.
I let it soak overnight. Saturday, I slip out with some friends to catch some waves. Surfing is one of those activities that remain fun, even if you suck at it. Needless to say, it remained fun.
Back at the house, I’m salty, sandy, and ready to cook. I promised my wife this dish for dinner.
The mise:
I pull the meat from the marinade and gently pat it dry. I don’t mind if the chunky garlic bits stick to the meat, but I don’t want the liquid. Messes up the maillard reaction. A quick sear on all sides, and out it comes.
A diced onion, a poblano chile, and a jalapeno chile go in over medium for a little sweat. Looking for soft onions, not brown onions.
That done, the meat goes back in, along with cumin, oregano, a little cayenne-based pepper sauce, and some diced tomatoes. I realized too late my tomatoes had gone south, so I cheated and used canned. I’m a horrible person.
Alright. The recipe I’m basing this on doesn’t recommend adding any more liquid to the pot. I think this is crazypants. I just don’t trust the vegetation I’m using to give out enough liquid to braise properly. So I supplement with beef stock until the meat is about three-quarters fully covered.
I bring to a boil, then lower to a simmer. Nothing left to do but wait.
Estimated cook time is two hours. It’s 6:40. That puts dinner at 8:40. Not as early as I’d hoped, but respectable.
I scamper off to YouTube.
You’re welcome.
Two hours later, I check the beef. It should be falling apart lovely. As yet, it is not.
I put it back on for another half hour.
Still no.
Another.
And another.
“Honey, is dinner ready yet?”
“Can’t rush genius, baby.”
Tick m’n'f’n tock.
Finally, as the french say: “le meat, she fall apart.”
What time is it?
Tomorrow o'clock.
I pull the meat and shred it. Back into the liquid, and reduce until it’s almost dry. Soon, it almost is.
Dinner’s ready.
Who's hungry?
Dinner has become lunch.
Everything goes into plastic and into the fridge. My wife made some lovely homemade tortillas, so at least when lunch does finally come, it should all be worth it.
Sleep.
The next day, we prepare for Sunday lunch the meal I began preparing Friday evening. Machaca on homemade tortillas. I opt for unadorned meat-on-tortilla, because I want to taste all the work I put in.
Verdict: Lovely. Smoky and rich, and quite frankly, well worth the time. This will likely become our default beef-for-Mexican-dishes… It really provides a depth of flavor that ground beef with dried spices doesn’t really match. And given that my chuck roast was two and a half pounds, I’ll have plenty of this on hand to dole out whenever.
The Wife Says: 8.99. It would have been a 9 if she could have had it when she smelled it cooking… you know, like around dinner time. She said she really sees a lot of potential in this one. This could be a ten. Encouraging.
Next up: disco flashbacks.
(Much love to Casey and Lolo for the YouTube link.)
I know. The title of this post sounds like hot tub time at a frat house. I assure you, that is not how I spent my Saturday.
Tonight, my lovely wife attended a Drag Queen Tupperware Party at a friend of ours’. I believe the Tupperware is sold by – and largely to – drag queens, rather than being an emporium where one could purchase a sensible product line to keep your drag queens fresh. But I could be wrong on that.
Regardless, D and I are kicking it by ourselves tonight. No ladies. No chicas. No wives or mothers. Just a coupla dudes bein’ dudes.
Maybe we’ll watch some football. Maybe we’ll rebuild the transmission on that old ‘78 Firebird I got up on blocks (Huh? shut up). Maybe we’ll wrassle some ‘gators. Who knows.
It’s also gonna be a crazy weekend. I likely won’t get to cook at all unless I do it tonight.
Luckily, I have help.
The crew.
Alright.
We’re looking for a no-fuss, relatively quick meal. We had swim lessons this morning, so we’re also looking for something hearty. Something stick-to-your-ribs. I’d also like to use some of my recently-delivered organic vegetables that I got in on Wednesday.
It’s summer, but we don’t play by anybody’s rules but our own. Let’s make stew.
This dish uses either chuck or round… I’m not entirely sure which. The butcher who partitioned my beastie was under orders to cut stew meat from both primals. From the looks of it, I’m guessing round. It doesn’t seem to have the marbling I’ve seen in the chuck I’ve used from this steer.
The mise:
You got anything for me to do?
This dish is pretty simple. We do have some prep, though. First, we peel some garlic.
I got this.
Gotta peel onions, too.
That's how you do that.
And carrots.
And, because we’re dudes, we’re gonna use some bacon.
How ya feel about bacon?
Me too.
Ready to cook.
First we crispify the bacon. How much bacon? Some. Measuring’s for chumps. Remove.
Beef in to brown in baconfat. Like God intended.
Beef out.
Baconfat good.
Onions in. Until soft-ish.
A little flour in, to make roux’s first cousin, “a little flour fried in baconfat with onions.” Then bay leaf, thyme, and some beef stock. I don’t have any in the freezer, so I use boxed. (Nobody’s rules but our own!)
Boil, baby.
Once we’re boiling, lid up and drop heat to low. D and I retire to watch some “Science.“
When the iphone beeps a half-hour later, we deposit some carrots and potatoes, re-boil, re-drop, re-lid, and kick back a while longer.
Forty-ish minutes later, veggies are soft and the meat is like buttah. Peas in, bacon in, and wait five minutes for what D calls, the “big boom.”
Dinner up.
Verdict: Quite good. It wasn’t revelatory, but it was definitely solid. The bacon added a nice smoky note to a very earthy, satisfying dish. I think next time I’d like to use half wine, half stock to braise the meat. This is a dish I think I could get better at, should I do it more. Which I intend to.
The Wife Says: Yay! Tupperware!
The Son Says: Sometimes one spoon just isn’t enough.
Up next: Patagonian monkey rugby.
EDIT: This was even better the second day. And still better yet the third. Time is on your side.
My wife had pulled a pound o’ ground out of the freezer and thawed it by the time I got home.
Furthermore, she’d whipped up some home-made flour tortillas, and pulled up a batch of her home-made ground beef seasoning for tacos. Dinner was almost ready.
Grass-fed beef tacos on home-made flour tortillas. I’m a very lucky man.
Here’s a quick recap of what happened while I was out.
pre-tortillas
A griddle helps.
Done.
I arrived just as she was starting to brown the beef.
The mise:
aka, "the mess."
So many spices!
I love it when my wife cooks, and she’s very good at it. But we have very different styles.
I’m of the Prior Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance school of kitchen-y arts. I tend to prep everything in advance, clear away anything that’s served it’s purpose, and clean as I go. I hate cleaning, but I like a clean, uncluttered workspace.
My wife cooks in what I call Schrodinger’s Kitchen. She enters, and then the place looks like a food bomb has gone off. Oil on the walls, flour on the ceiling, ingredients akimbo… little dust storms of polenta and confectioner’s sugar kicking up intermittently and throwing around tiny piles of fresh herbs like prairie twisters. I can check in to see how she’s doing, but there is really no way to tell.
When my wife cooks, the meal is simultaneously both ruined and sublime until we take our first bite. Then, the wave function collapses, and we see how everything turned out.
Today, it was lovely.
Yay, Wednesday!
The verdict? A simple, fast weeknight meal. Flour tortillas aren’t hard to make from scratch, and I highly recommend doing so.
Likewise, seasoning the ground yourself is much nicer than the prepackaged taco spices.
The Wife Says: I am Escoffier reborn.
The Husband Says: A quick, healthy, and delicious weeknight meal. Two thumbs up.
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