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?

Short Loin – Garlic-Herb T-bones in a Bourbon Pan Sauce

Forgive me, dear readers, for taking so long to post. Time has been at a premium of late, and I’ve had some difficulty finding time to eat, let alone write about it.

This weekend, however, I made up for all that.

Saturday, I took to the great blue Pacific with my friends Chris and Ben the Baconchef. We spent the better part of the day riding Poseidon’s peristalsis as the ocean eats the land over a span of eons.

In other words, we went surfing.

I love surfing. It’s one of those activities you can really enjoy, even if you’re absolutely horrible at it. Like golf. Or cosmetic surgery.

As the day wore on, the sets came in bigger and bigger. Toward the end of the day, we wound up facing five and six foot waves.

Which means that toward the end of the day, I got my ass kicked by five and six foot waves.

Which means that Sunday, I am a broken man. I’ve been through Neptune’s spin cycle, and now I am hung out to dry. (Wait, Jared… didn’t you call it ‘Poseidon’s peristalsis’ before? Aren’t you mixing metaphors? Shut up.)

I had planned to make a classic French dish this weekend, but after shambling painfully around town on my Sunday errands, I don’t have enough time. Also, it’s hot. And that particular dish isn’t especially suited to SoCal summer heat.

Switch gears. What haven’t I done?

There’s a gem of a recipe in the Grassfed Gourmet cookbook that Chris gave me when I picked up my beef. I’ve been waiting to try it with a T-bone.

I like steak. I like bourbon. Giddyup.

The T-bone is a cut from the loin of the steer. At the center of the cut is a T-shaped bone, hence the name. On one side of this bone is a large, oval-rectangular muscle. This is the strip loin… cut differently, it’d be a Kansas City or New York strip.

The other side of the bone has some portion of a smaller, rounder muscle, the much-adored tenderloin. Cut differently, this would be a filet mignon.

The T-bone is very similar to the porterhouse steak. Both of the aforementioned muscles are located on the steer’s back, running parallel to the spine. The tenderloin, however, is gently conical, like a baseball bat. That is, the diameter of a tenderloin from the front of the animal is smaller than a tenderloin taken from near the back. If you take a T-bone from closer to the front of the animal, the tenderloin is smaller, and the cut is called a T-bone. If you take the same cut from near the back of the animal, the tenderloin is larger, and the cut is called a porterhouse. (The strip half has the same general size difference – bigger when taken from the back than the front. But the tenderloin size difference is probably more noticiable.)

My T-bones were probably taken from near the very front of the animal, as the tenderloin is very small.

The mise:

Dream on.

I put the steaks in the (turned off, yet dog-resistant) microwave to come to room temp. It’s important on thicker cuts to bring them to room temp so they cook evenly.

While they’re warming, I knock together a batch of the book’s Garlic Herb Rub (thyme, rosemary, oregano, fennel, garlic powder, salt, and pepper). I’ve done both strip and tenderloin with minimal seasoning, so the rub will be an interesting variation.

Meanwhile, sides. Our organic veggie delivery service hooked us up with some nice button mushrooms. A quick perusal of Bittman’s index nets me some Mushroom-Bacon skewers. (Who doesn’t like bacon?)

Our veggiefolk also dropped of a beautiful head of Romaine lettuce. Ladies and gentlemen, there will be salad. I knock together a quick honey mustard vinaigrette for use with the greens.

Quick question though: Why the hell is Ferran Adria on my Olive oil?

Is there some molecular gastronomy at work here? Is there a foam involved? Is this label actually edible nori? Is my olive oil actually some amalgum of liquid nitrogen, corn husks, and dimethyl sulfoxide? What’s the deal, Adria? Why are you getting all Rachel Ray on me?

Whatever. Everybody needs a paycheck.

T-bones are close enough for jazz. Let’s dance.

Olive oil and butter in the front pan. Just olive oil in the back. Count to an arbitrarily large number.

Oil’s hot. Bacon and mushroom in back. Steaks in front. I have about ten minutes on each, so I start humming Stairway to Heaven.

By the time there’s a bustle in my hedgerow, the steaks are asking for a flip. I oblige, and stir the shrooms.

“And it makes me wonder…”

Steaks are done. Temp check confirms it, so I tent them with foil and let them rest. Deglaze with bourbon and simmer.

“And she’s buying… a stairway… to…” something or other. Shrooms are done.

Plate.

Verdict: Lovely, as you’d expect. There wasn’t much of a tenderloin to speak of in this cut, but the strip was excellent.

The rub was a bit overpowering. One thing I’m noticing about the steaks on this steer is that they don’t need much. Salt, pepper, good oil – and they shine. Big fancy rub, and I tend to regret it. (I’m talking about steaks here. Those ribs were lovely, for example. Barbecue is a different beast.) The bourbon pan sauce was inspired, however. I’m adding that to my bag of tricks.

The wife says: 8.5 out of ten. The steak was excellent. The rub wasn’t really necessary. The beef is very lush and flavorful all by itself.

I really enjoyed it. I can’t wait until I work my way back toward the porterhouse.

What else can I deglaze with bourbon?

At the Mountains of Madness

Here be monsters.

Today is why God made Saturdays and Brahma made Los Angeles. Seventy degrees and sunny, with a hundred percent chance of paradise.

Today is a day when all sane people go to the beach.

In our case, Leo Carillo. Dog-friendly, toddler-welcoming, and blissfully uncrowded.

We start getting ready at 9, leave at 11, and arrive at just after noon. The toddler swims, the dog runs, the mom chills, and the dad frolics with all of the preceding.

Alright.

We discuss stopping at Malibu Seafood on the way home. It’s a favorite haunt. But we have Miss Basil with us, and they frown on pets, so we decide against it.

But wait! This whole Year of the Cow action has taught me a thing or two. One of which is that a person can frequently do restaurant-y food at home with good results.

I’m coming home from the beach, but I don’t want to leave.

My wife wants a steak, I want some seafood. I have a cow in the freezer, a chip on my shoulder, and nothing at all to lose.

“Hey, honey.  How about some Surf and Turf?”

Let’s swing for the fences. Let’s shoot for the moon. Let’s take advantage of the fact that I have a quarter ton of beef in my backyard.

She’s game. I wheel toward the grocery store.

Lobster and filet mignon. Okay, I realize this meal borders on stunt food. It’s basically the two most expensive items on the menu, paired together. It’s ostentatious. It’s self-conscious. Maybe even a little cliche.

But it also sounds good.

If there’s a silver lining to the very dark cloud of our current international recession, it’s that lobster prices have fallen through the floor. What used to be sixteen bucks a pound is now in the neighborhood of nine. Bad for Maine, good for diners.

My local food-and-sundries vendor has a live tank. I’m looking for something in the pound and a half range, and they can oblige.

However, I read cookbooks for fun. And one thing I’ve learned is that just because a lobster is alive doesn’t mean that he’s fresh. I ask to examine my crustacean dinner guest.

The fish guy, Clive,  lifts him up, and he pitches a fit. That’s good. Tired lobsters are not fresh lobsters. Claws and legs akimbo, he really wants to take a bite out of Clive. His midsection is firm (the lobster, not Clive). He weighs 1.38 pounds. A good fit for us. I’ll take him.

Evidentally this is Clive’s first rodeo, because he has to ask his manager how to pack up the lobster. His manager shoves a cardboard box in his direction. I’ve never bought a live lobster before. I envisioned my taking him home in an oversized goldfish baggie. Not so much I guess.

I load up my box o’ lobster like a pie in a diner and head for the exit, stopping only for butter and a brewsky to pair it with.

As I leave, I can hear the lobster scratching at the box lid. That’s creepy.

Once home, I open the box, frighten the wife, freak out the dog, and re-examine the crustacean. He really is fascinating to behold.

Here’s the thing about lobsters… They’re referred to colloquially as “bugs,” but that’s actually pretty accurate. One of their closest relatives is the cockroach. The closest analogy to their brain structure is that of a grasshopper…. and the word “brain” is used pretty loosely here. It’s more like a collection of ganglia. They’re cool-looking, but their nervous system is rudimentary at best.

What a punum.

They used to be thick as thieves in the North Atlantic.  They’re heavily fished now, but once upon a time, they were considered Sea Vermin. In fact, in the 1800s, so many washed ashore after storms in New England that they were forced on indigent widows, orphans, and prisoners. Massachusetts had to pass a law that convicts in the state penal system couldn’t be fed lobster more than twice a week. Poor bastards.

Still, I’m gonna be killing this thing, and I’d like it to be as painless and humane as possible.

Suggestions vary. The Larousse says that two hours in a freezer will cause a lobster to go to sleep and then painlessly die. At which point, a cook can proceed with whatever cooking process they like (steaming, in my case) with absolute certainty that said crustacean is deceased.

Alton Brown says twenty minutes is enough to render said invertebrate insensate. In other words, close enough that it makes no difference.

Bittman says I’m a pansy, and should just drop ‘em in hot water.

I vote for certainty with the Larousse. Two hours it is. I take a moment, because I don’t do this lightly. Then, into the freezer.

Meanwhile, I clarify some butter, and bring a filet mignon to room temp.

Two hours later, my bug is dead, dead, dead. I pull him out. Basil still doesn’t trust him.

The mise:

Simple, eh?

Four legs good, six legs freaky.

I put an inch of water in a large pot to boil. This is gonna be good.

My lobster twitches. This is a little creepy, but I’m ready for it. I’ve read that they do this sometimes after they die. Something about post-mortem nerve reflexes. I reflect again, but this is a glorified sea cockroach. Everything’s good.

I throw some oiled-and-salted potatoes into the preheated oven to bake.

Lobster twitches again. I could never make frog legs. This is unnerving.

Was that leg in that position a minute ago?

Must have been.

Or was it?

That is post-mortem twitching right?

I tap the shell.

The lobster stands up.

I jump about fifteen feet in the air. Omigodomigodomigod.

That is not post mortem twitching!

I know what you’re thinking. Undead zombie lobster hell-bent on seeking their revenge on the living.

Yep. Pretty much.

What the hell?

I pick up the board, and pop the whole thing back in the freezer.

I sit quietly for a while, and put myself in a good place, psychologically. My wife and kid don’t need to know about this. This is what nightmares are made of.

Look at them. Frolicking outside. So innocent. So unknowing.

Is that something scraping at the door of my freezer?

No. It can’t be. Ignore it.

Twenty minutes more. Nothing lives through that. Especially nothing without a circulatory system.

Wife and child seem happy. Dog is quiet. Water is boiling. Time to cook.

I crack open the freezer door. Lobster corpse.

Out we come. Everything’s good.

Bittman says to rinse briefly. No problem. Under the faucet for a couple of seconds…

…AND THE LEFT CLAW FLIES OFF. It falls clattering into the sink.

What the…!

I drop the lobster.

This is not right. Did I get a defective bug?

Google.

“Lobsters sometimes jettison or throw their claws as a defensive mechanism.“

WHAT THE GREAT GALLOPING HELL?

After all this bug has been through, IT IS STILL ALIVE.

…and it’s taking all this personally. It chucked its claw to freak me out.

It succeeded.

Okay, fine. I was trying to be humane. I wanted this to be painless. But you’re flinging dismembered limbs at me when you’re supposed to be asleep and docile and silent. I did everything I could to end your life painlessly. And now I just don’t want you to crawl across the floor and strangle me in my sleep, you undead zombie vampire crustacean bastard, you.

Water’s boiling. Headfirst, throwing the claw in after. Ten-count, then I hop around in the living room going ew, ew, ew, ew, who throws limbs at people? I am freaked right out.

Just die already.

How’s my son? Wife? Dog? Good? Okay.

Ten seconds later, lobster is dead. Supposedly.

Didn’t I have some clarified butter around here? I thought so. Salt and pepper, high heat, steak into a skillet. I’m sauteeing it in clarified butter, as per a suggestion in the Larousse. I hope this advice is more accurate than their instructions on how to dispatch a lobster.

A few minutes later… flip. Steak looks fantastic.

Eight minutes a pound on my zombie lobster. Ten minutes later, a probe in his tail registers a temperature of 150. Good to go.

My wife sees I’m pale as a ghost. “You alright, babe?” Yeah, sweetie, I’m fine. The undead walk among us, they lack vertebrae, they resent our very existence, and hate us enough to fling their own limbs at us. I’ll never sleep soundly again. But other than that, I’m peachy keen.

Steak is medium rare. Lobster is ready. Potatoes are done.

Let’s go outside.

Lobster. Filet Mignon. Baked potatoes. Icy cold beer.

I sit down to dinner.

While making this meal was something out of an H.P. Lovecraft tale, the end result is pretty lovely.

Verdict? About what you’d expect. Heartbreakingly delicious. The lobster is moist and sweet. The tenderloin is like butter… lush and juicy and mild. A dead simple meal to make, and one that yields spectacular results. What a great end to a Saturday. I could get used to this.

The Wife Says: 9.5 out of 10. Super tasty, tender, succulent and delicious.

After dinner, we clean up. I put all the lobster detritus in the trash can in our alley.

Then I put a brick on the lid.

And I go inside, and lock the door.

Round – Chicken Fried Steak

Sunday afternoon. I think to myself, “Man. I’d really like a salad.”

Quick poke around the fridge. Not so much in the way of salad material. Some romaine hearts. A couple of veggies in the crisper that haven’t yet evolved into sentience, but nothing that really goes together. Hm. I guess I’ll just do a super-simple salad and knock together a quick vinaigrette to make it a little special.

Alright, so my salad can be a side salad. That raises other questions for dinner, since I can’t make that a standalone dish. I need a main course.

Let’s poke around in the freezer. Meh.

Let’s poke around in The Freezer.

I pull out a piece labeled “tenderized round steak.” I used some top round in jerky a couple of weeks ago, and it turned out really well. I saw these steaks back then, and they piqued my interest. Plus, I still haven’t used the new Jaccard I picked up the other day.

Let’s do Chicken Fried Steak.

This dish reminds me of home. I developed a fondness for it waiting tables at a pancake house in Kansas. It’s the perfect end to a long night of trying not to get your ponytailed ass knocked to the ground by a throng of drunken faux-cowboys. Good times.

For this one, I’m going back to Alton Brown.

The mise:

I warm the oven to 250. How do I know?

Hey, look! I'm not an idiot anymore!

No more trips to Chucktown for me.

The two round steaks are thawed and ready. I dredge them with seasoned flour. The “tenderized” on the label was no joke. These things have been thoroughly perforated.

But I wanna use my new, pretty Jaccard, so give them another once-over.

le jaccard

At this point I can almost see daylight through them, so I’m calling them sufficiently tenderized. I don’t want them to look like a meat doily on the plate.

I let the steaks sit for a few so the crust can cement to the meat. Meanwhile, I heat up a little canola in a stockpot (my frying pan isn’t big enough) and stare off into middle distance.

Basil's supervising.

She has flour on her flank. Not fussed about it

At this point, I start to think about the other veggies I have laying around. I just picked up some white onions. I don’t think they’d do well on my side salad, though. What else? I have a lot more canola oil, because we were running out…

Where’s my mandoline?

It slices! It dices!

Steaks go into a little hot, shimmery oil. Long enough to get some Golden Brown and Delicious on, then a flip.

Onions go into a lot of hot, shimmery oil. Long enough to get some Golden Brown and Delicious on, then a rescue.

Everything goes into gently warm – and accurately measured – oven.

Did I mention I'm not an idiot anymore?

Steaks done – into oven. Onion rings done – into oven.

Gravy time. I have too much cooking oil in the pan, so I siphon a little off. In goes some flour to make a little roux (while whisking). Then a quick deglaze with chicken broth (while whisking), add milk and thyme and cook it down (while whisking).  Pause to admire my work (while whiskeying).

Everything’s ready. We plate up, and I snap a shot with the focus-challenged remnants of The Great Camerageddon of ‘09.

One of these things is not like the other.

Therein lies a problem. How am I supposed to keep gravy from getting on my lettuce?

That's how.

Denuded of vegetation, dinner’s ready.

Simpler times, indeed.

Verdict? If you like Chicken Fried Steak, this is better than most of those you’ll get in a restaurant. Plus, you know where it comes from. There’s no What-The-Hell-Am-I-Eating? mystery about this meat.

I enjoyed this dish, and it was a big hit with my son, who doesn’t generally dig meat. That said, I think I could have needled it a little more (despite my butcher’s prep), and probably fried it a little longer.

As a side note, if you dig onion rings, think very hard about making them at home. They’re not difficult, and they’re shockingly good. You just need a lot of oil and good temperature control.

In all, a great way to end a weekend.

Though I never did get that salad.

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.