Flank – Matambre

What a weekend.

First, the blog. I’m writing this post as I cook, rather than revisiting it afterward and retelling events. Hopefully this’ll cut down on the amount of time it actually takes to write the posts. Verite, baby! Also, I’m nuts.

This weekend was nothing if not productive. Yesterday, we zipped downtown to Ross Cutlery – quite possibly the greatest cutlery shop in the history of sharp, pointy things. I left my chef’s knife for them to reinvigorate, and we wandered around downtown. Angels Flight, all the old movie houses. Grand Central Market. It’s a helluva way to spend a morning.

Also, a helluva way to do lunch. We swung by the fabled Clifton’s Cafeteria for our noontime repast. In a word – wow.

Clifton’s is the kind of place that if it didn’t exist, we’d have to invent. It’s a cafeteria, and it makes no bones about it. But everything there is made from scratch, and the decor is simply beyond belief. Go look at their site. I’ll wait.

Clifton’s sprang up in the thirties and it fed people straight through the Depression, regardless of their ability to pay. The original owner, Clifford Clinton, wanted to change the world – literally. He made a earnest,  bonafide effort to end hunger by founding a nonprofit called Meals for Millions, distributing Multi-Purpose Food (a concept he invented and researched at Cal-Tech) to the impoverished and malnourished worldwide.

He also grew up near redwood groves in central California, which is why the two of the three stories (three stories!) of his cafeteria are done up as redwood grove meets Splash Mountain meets Coen Brothers. And the food is solid, well-made fare.

Here’s the pitch: Clifton’s bought their building in Downtown LA is 2006, at the height of the real estate boom. People don’t really do cafeterias anymore, so they’re running in the red and trying to sell the building. Their hope is that the next owners will let them continue to operate, but nothing is certain. So their days may be numbered.

Clifton’s is oldschool. Kitschy and earnest. Last of a dying breed. They’ve been in business for a hundred and thirteen years, through five generations. LA landmark. So go to Cliftons! You aren’t even sacrificing anything. The place is solid, and solidly trippy. Read more here.

Also, I took D to the zoo this morning, because my wife wasn’t feeling well. Go do that, too, but only if you’ve already gone to Clifton’s. I’ll tell.

In other news:

I replaced my camera lens!

Hopefully it won’t look like I snapped everything with a pinhole camera anymore. Another couple of weeks of this and I was just gonna build a Camera Obscura and invite everybody over.

Wait, aren’t I supposed to be cooking something? Right.

This is what you get when I sit down to write while my flank steak is marinating.

And marinating it is. I’m making matambre – a rolled and stuffed flank steak, similar to a roulade. The word is a combination of the words “mata” and “hambre”. In English, it translates to “hunger killer.” I can get down.

Bittman has a recipe. First, there’s a fair amount of prep work. I hard boil some eggs, chop some watercress, onion, garlic, carrots. Chop the eggs. Set aside some cilantro and parsley. Good.

Mise:

Alright, I pull the steak from the bath. I made this one up. A marinade is an acidic, salty bath for meat. Soy (for salt), a little vinegar (for acid), a little honey (hydroscopic, to keep it from overcuring, not that it’s really an issue. It also tastes nice…), salt, pepper, and garlic. It’s been going an hour.

Basil approves.

I need to butterfly the flank. Which basically means halve it’s thickness, but don’t cut all the way through. Bingo.

Except that I butterflied it the wrong way. I’m something of an idiot.

My flank was vaguely triangular shaped. Narrow end, to a much wider end.

I misunderstood the instructions, though I now get it, in retrospect.

I butterflied it toward the narrow end. Result: a butterfly-shaped piece of meat. Wide on the left and right, narrow in the center.

Optimally, I would have rotated the piece ninety degrees, and butterflied left to right. Resulting in a more square-shaped piece of meat.

In other words, if you’re trying this at home, make sure the grain is pointing at your own belly when you butterfly it. Then slice from left to right (or vice versa). The grain should be running toward and away from you.

I roll, tie, and heat some oil.

The end result should not look like a cracked-out spring roll.

After I brown it in a Dutch oven, into a 375 degree oven, and I have an hour and a quarter or so to kill and write in my blog.

Time to make some Chimmichurri.

Bittman has a recipe for that, too. It’s essentially parsley, garlic, and red pepper pureed in an olive oil emulsion. I likey the salsa, so I wind up adding more red pepper and more garlic. I whip that up while I’m waiting for my flank to cook. Tick tock.

My wife’s playing piano. How nice.

Why’s my fire alarm going off? Stupid fire alarm.

Wait. Grassfed beef frequently cooks faster than grain fed, remember? I check.

Bittman says cook “1 1/4 hours, until tender to the touch.” What the hell does that mean? It’s flank steak wrapping veggies. It’s already tender to the touch.

I check it, and I think I have a little more time. Back in.

I wait a few… a couple minutes, no more. I’m a little obsessive-compulsive, though. What’s my oven thermometer say?

It says five hundred degrees.

Huh?

I check the dial. It’s set to broil.

I must have brushed it on my way past a few minutes ago. I hate my oven.

I pull the roast. Lid off, let it cool. Hope I didn’t wreck it.

Pace, swear, pace, sigh, pace.

A half-hour flies by. Rest is done, let’s eat.

It’s late now, and my wife’s already had something. This will just be a little nosh. But it’s frequently served as an appetizer in Argentina, so I’ll call that even.

Slice. It still looks like a Vietnamese crab imperial roll gone off the reservation.

Umami?

But it makes a remarkably attractive slice.

Plate, chimmichurri, and serve.

First, I nibble off an unsauced portion.

Okay. Snap. This is some herbaceous steak. It’s floral and fragrant and the marinade plus the herbs I wrapped in it have done some exceptional things to this cut.

It’s a little more done than I would have preferred… More medium well than medium rare. But no more than that. Not a deal-killer.

Sauce next. That seals it. The chimmichurri is crazy good.

It’s essentially flank wrapping veggies, infused with herbs, and accompanied by a pungent, earthy, spicy sauce. Cold beer, and we’re in good shape.

I'll take it.

Ladies and gentlemen, I did not wreck it.

Verdict: Despite some temp-related scares, this turned out well. Sincerely enjoyed, plus matambre is supposed to be as good or better the next day, sliced thin at room temp. I’m game. Looking forward to lunch tomorrow.

The Wife Says: 8.5 out of 10. The chimmichurri really sold it for her. She didn’t really notice/mind my butterfly fiasco. She would have been less forgiving of dry or tough meat, so make sure you don’t overcook, and be sure to slice across the grain. That makes all the difference. Also,  I think the chimmichurri forgves a lot of sins.

She gave bonus points for “out of the ordinary” and “unexpected”. She didn’t see this one coming.

Up next: beats me. Any requests?

Chuck – Super-Slow-Roasted Rosemary-Crusted Chuck Steak

Now we’re talking.

See? I told you this wasn’t just a dude-who-makes-steak-over-and-over blog. I’ve been busy. Cut me some slack.

While I was out cavorting on Whitney, my wife had designs of her own. She was prepping an outright feast.

Namely, a recipe out of the Grassfed Gourmet cookbook that Chaffin Orchards turned us on to when we brought home our beef.

In essence, it’s a chuck roast, roasted over very low heat for a very long time.

Chuck is the shoulder of the steer. It’s large, and it does a lot of work. As a result, it’s very flavorful, but can be very tough. It’s also one of the most economical cuts of beef at retail. Consumers see a little less of it now than they used to, because it’s one of the cuts most commonly turned into ground beef.

You generally have to cook chuck low and slow, which causes all the collagen (connective tissue)  in this particular collagen-heavy cut to convert into gelatin, which is delicious. It creates an unmistakably unctuous mouthfeel. It’s a huge component of the richness we tend to associate with many comfort foods.

The roast. Three pounds o’ chucky goodness. Brought to room temp, liberally coated with a Garlic-Rosemary rub.

We slide it into a 250 degree oven for a few minutes. Then, we knock the temp down to 170, and let it go for four hours or until internal temp hits 125, but no higher, lest it be wrecked.

Hey, wait… Our oven thermostat doesn’t go down to 170! Eh, I’ll just guess.

Friends, do not just guess.

We check it at two and a half hours, out of an abundance of caution. And because it smelled really good.

Internal temp: 157.

Ladies and gentlemen, we wrecked it.

We pulled it, and laid out dinner. We had some other stuff, but I want to talk about the roast. So let’s say we had sides of fugu, durian, and an ‘88 Chateau Lafite.

The chuck,  needless to say, was overcooked. And because it cooked so quickly, most of the connective tissue remained intact. There was a lot of slicing to separate meat from nonmeat.

Regardless, the chuck still tasted very… chucky. I found it fascinating, as I’m not sure I’ve ever had a piece of unadulterated chuck before. I’ve had it ground, primarily. Never whole.

This is the flavor that non-beef items try to emulate to taste beefy. It was far richer than the steaks we’d done previously, or even grain-fed pot roasts I’ve made. It was rich and robust. It had a certain piquant fullness at the top of my palate. This could be very, very good.

I need to try this again. And I think it’d be a hoot to do it without ruining dinner.

Moral of the story, kids: get an oven thermometer.