Chuck – Beef Daube

Dayum.

They call it Labor Day. And year after year, it routinely kicks my ass.

I think it’s because it’s a three day weekend. And because of this, no staid, routine Weekend Activity will do. On a regular weekend, I may go for a walk. On a three day weekend, I go for a run. Weekend: nine holes. Three day weekend: Eighteen holes without a cart. Weekend: crossword puzzle. Three day: left handed brain surgery with a blade I knapped by hand out of chert.

This weekend is no different. It’s exhausting, but a good kind of exhausting. Dearly-loved houseguests we haven’t seen in forever, a wedding, and repairing my broken water main ahead of all that so that the aforementioned activities won’t be unduly affected.

But a guy’s gotta eat. Houseguests afford me the opporunity to use some of my larger hunks o’ critter, so I’m doing just that. And again, because of my SuperPregnant wife, a braise or long, slow roast is on le menu.

Alors! Let’s get our French on. My braise will consist of that Provencal classic, Beef Daube.

Beef Daube is a French beef stew whose name means “French beef stew.” Cubes of chuck, braised in wine with a mirepoix, herbs and some accoutrements. Traditionally, one is supposed to prepare the braise in a special dish called a daubiere, which I have absolutely no intention of doing, primarily because I don’t have one. But also, having a specialty pot for one dish and one dish only makes me twitch a little.

For those keeping score at home, I will be using Bittman’s recipe.

We’ll be braising chuck, the shoulder of the beast. Moves a lot, does a lot of work. Pronounced “beefy” flavor and tough as old leather unless you cook it for a very long time in liquid over low heat to melt all that icky collagen into delicious gelatin. Mine is a shade under three pounds.

Looks like:

Also, a braise gives me plenty of time to chat with my guests while the dish does that thing it does. Giddyup.

The mise:

First, Cubism.

I call this one "Three Musicians."

Olive oil and good bacon into the pot. Cooked over medium heat until crispy.

Fat rendered, I pull the bacon and brown the beef in the bacon fat/olive oil until appropriately Maillardy.

Beef browned, I pull it and introduce the veggies to the pot. There’s plenty of fat therein, so I don’t need to add anymore.

I sweat the mirepoix and garlic with fresh thyme, fresh rosemary, orange peel and a little salt to pull out some moisture.

When the onions are translucent, I add some wine and red wine vinegar, just until it bubbles.

(An aside: I used to be confused about “sweat onions until translucent.” They don’t actually become clear, as the description would suggest. At best, they become a little less opaque around the edges of each little segment of onion, and they release moisture into the pot in which they’re cooking. So they aren’t really “translucent”, as much as “translucent around the very edges.” Kinda like teeth. Which, if you look, are also ever so slightly translucent around the very edges. Seriously. Look closely at them. So sweat your onions until they look like teeth. I’m a weird guy. You’re welcome.)

When the liquid bubbles a bit, I add the beef back into the pot, cover, and forget about it for an hour.

Puppies!

This content is unrelated.

Back to it. I add the bacon back to the pot and check doneness. Needs more time.

Duckies!

More unrelated content, signifying the passing of time.

After another half hour, then hour, then hour and a half, we’re getting close. But we’re not quite there.

Also, it’s nine thirty. We fed the kids and shuffled them off to bed, but the rest of us are getting restless.

Twenty more minutes.

Bunnies!

Unrelated content signifying the passage of time... sexily.

Some bits are done, and some are not. I spot check doneness with a fork, and serve up the ready bits over brown rice with wine for those who aren’t pregnant. Milk for those who are. The rest of the dish stays on a low simmer to cook more.

Time of dinner: 9:50. I am a distinctly mediocre host, saved only by the tremendous grace and good humor of our dear friends.

The end result

The Verdict: A lovely dish, which I could have done better. It met universal acclaim, but hey. They’re my friends. They have to like me.

The texture of the meat was nice in the pieces we served, and only got better as we left the rest of the batch to simmer. Herby and floral, balanced with bacony undertones and the sweetness of the wine. Also, even better the second day.

The Wife Says: Yummy. Nice job, sweetie. We should make this again when we have more time.

What Did We Learn?: Start earlier. And be sure to dine with friends. Kind, patient friends.

Up Next: The sky’s the limit.

Rib – Crossrib Steak – I wing it.

I love Sundays.

Sunday afternoon is the denouement of my weekend. It’s where the entire thing resolves, we get our happy ending, and we move on to the next thing.

This is the first non-scheduled, stress-free Sunday I’ve had in quite a while, so I’m going to make the most of it. So mid-afternoony, I hop on my (dusty, cobweb covered) bike and head out to the market.

My bike is actually the fastest way for me to shop. I roll right up to the front and lock in front of the door (rockstar parking!), get what I need, and zip home. My ride is an Xtracycle longtail cargobike, so I can carry pretty much anything I could take in a car. No exaggeration. I’ve carried three cases of soda, flowers, and six full bags of groceries on the badboy. Occasionally I return shopping carts I find in the neighborhood. Now that I have two functioning shoulders again, I plan on using a lot more than I have been.

To the store. I buy some stuff. Among the stuff… ice cream. Buying ice cream when you’re on a bike can be a pretty ballsy move. You’re writing a check you hope your legs can cash. Today, I’m feeling it.

Home again. I unload the goods and the ice cream is hard as a rock. Rawr.

Time to cook. What do we have? I have several appropriately-sized packages for the meal I hope to make for my wife and son. I settle on a crossrib steak. What’s that? It’s a steak. Cut across the rib. I suppose. I don’t feel like looking it up right now. (Answers at the end.*) It’s about the right size, so that’s what I’m making.

A note: I also don’t feel like cracking a cookbook. I’m in a zone. I’m just gonna wing it.

Now. What do I do with the thing? Looking it over, it looks like it has a fair bit of connective tissue. So I’m gonna try a braise. Also, upon thawing, I notice there are two steaks in the pack. I’ll save the second for later and try something different later this week.

Did I expect two steaks? I did not.

Right. Braising. In what? I have beef stock, so I’ll go with that. I don’t really feel comfortable braising in wine, because (drum roll) my wife is pregnant! We’re expecting our second child, a daughter, in September.

So no braising in wine. Also, no rare steaks for a while. Back to the show.

Beef stock. I got it, it’s delicous, done. I chop up a quick mirepoix, add in some mushrooms, shallots and garlic, and I’m ready to rock.

Mise:

Since I’m braising, I salt and pepper fairly heavily and dredge the meat in flour.

Off to the Dutch for a quicky sear.

I know the meat’s seared when it has a hard, golden brown crust and the fire alarm goes off. I set it aside to cool its jets.

A little more olive oil, and in with the vegetation. Meat on top like it’s a little beefy hovercraft riding on a cushion of plants instead of air. On with the liquid. Bada bing.

Elapsed time, like, all of ten minutes. And the steak will braise until… it’s done? A while. I’m winging it.

Out to mow the lawn.

Lawn tamed, house smells great. Time for a treat.

...with artsy dutch angle.

Yes, I bought a Clamato beer, specifically for an after-mowing treat. I’ve never had one before. It’s beer, tomato juice, clam juice and lime. My beer has a warning on the can that it contains shellfish. This is a food item that simply should not be.

It’s so wrong. It’s so right.

I’m gonna grill some potatoes for a side, so I prep them for the party. Have I mentioned it’s a beautiful day? It is.

Stash the spuds in foil.

It’s been about an hour and a half. Steak’s like buttah. Stash it in foil, too. Note to self: I need to get more foil.

Sauce. Remove lid. Boil. You know, this clam/tomato/beer thing isn’t half bad.

Strain sauce. Plate and serve.

Verdict: Okay, yes. This is great. The steak is falling apart tender and this is easily the best sauce I’ve ever made to accompany a meat dish. I let it reduce further than I thought I should, as my sauces have wound up a little loose in the past. This is perfect. This coats the back of a spoon, and tastes like a hug wrapped in a backrub stuffed inside endorphins and dipped in chocolate. This one worked.

The steak is tender and luscious. The beef flavor is pronounced and vibrant, with a soft shallot note that I really dig. I used a lot of shallots.

Freshly cut lawn. Weird clam/tomato beer. Quality steak with a sauce I consider a personal best. Happy family. I can get down.

The Wife Says: Why don’t we do this more often?

It was also the perfect portion size for two adults and a kiddo. My two year old chowed down on this one. That’s saying something.

I love Sundays.

–

*Crossrib steak comes from the Chuck. It’s taken from above the rib, like a ribeye. This cut is just further forward on the beast than the ribeye. Of variable tenderness, so most books suggest marinating or braising. It’s primarily composed of a single muscle, and is frequently compared to a ribeye in terms of taste, but at a fraction of the price. There ya go. Now you know.

Next up: There were two in the package. Let’s see what we can do with the other one.

Things You Might Not Know – Beefalanche

So, it turns out that when you buy four hundred and numfty-mumph pounds of beef, organization matters.

My freezer, as you can see, is a chest freezer. One large space, with drawers hanging on the sides.

I filled these drawers stem to stern with one-pound packages of ground beef. Still, I had ground to spare.

So I lined the bottom of the freezer with packages of ground. Figuring, I wouldn’t need to access these packages for a very long time, since I had four full drawers of ground beef.

So all’s hunky dory, yes?

Kinda.

You see, fitting the rest of the meat into the freezer is something of a feat. It’s like a giant game of meat Tetris. If I do it right, I have millimeters to spare. If I do it wrong, the lid won’t close. So I fit everything else in there as best I can.

So my meat is stored with a very high degree of geometrical order, and a very low degree of logical order.

Which means, of course, that whatever I’m looking for at any given time is at the very bottom of the chest.

This means I have to displace a large amount of meat to find that tiny piece of top round or flank or <Insert Bit Here> that’s invariably nestled between a three-bone standing rib roast and a giant chuck roast somewhere near the Earth’s mantle.

Where'd I put that oxtail....

Displace that meat haphazardly, and you get a Beefalanche. A cascade of ice-cold, rock-hard, relatively heavy, irregular shapes tumbling onto the ground, the dog, your feet, and worst of all, back into the Beefchasm you’ve already created in your freezer, causing you to lose your place and begin again.

Please, god... I'll be good...

If anybody has any tips for keeping everything organized, I’d love to hear it.