I was glancing through an old edition of Food Arts this morning when I saw a reference to lamb with charmoula. In recent days, we've touched on chimichurri (and incidentally on its Italian cousin salsa verde), so why not keep going on the theme of green condiment sauces?
Charmoula, often transliterated from Arabic as chermoula, is the green sauce from northern Africa: Morocco, Tunisia, and Algeria. The basic theme is a lot of cilantro, a little parsley (3:1 ratio), olive oil, lemon juice, a bit of garlic, and that's about where the commonality in recipes ceases.
Each cook adds his or her own touches to personalize the sauce: ras al hanout, cumin, green chiles, cayenne pepper or paprika, onion, lemon zest or preserved lemon, and so forth. Ras al hanout is another can of worms: it's a blend of many spices such as cumin, cardamom, cinnamon, coriander, paprika, cayenne, black pepper and so forth and so on ad nauseum. You think charmoula recipes vary? You should get into a "discussion" someday about the definitive ras al hanout mixture!
This whole thread reminds me that I bought some gorgeous cilantro at the farmers market this morning to accompany my dinner special: Huachinango en Mojo de Ajo (whole roasted red snapper with garlic paste). I'm thinking that charmoula might just be a great finishing touch, but I think we'll call it salsa verde.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Paleron, My Favorite Cut of Beef
In going through my web site statistics this morning, I saw that already this month, several people have found my site by searching for "what is paleron", "paleron" and "paleron recipes". No wonder: my site is ranked number one on Google when searching for "paleron". Who knew?
The best cut of beef for braising (besides the shin) is a small (about 4 pound, 2 kg) roast from the shoulder. It sits between the shoulder blade and the neck and is called variously upper blade roast or top blade roast. My butcher calls it by the French name paleron. By whatever name, it has outstanding flavor.
In the trade, specify NAMP 114D. This brochure shows the full shoulder clod broken down into primals: the paleron is the roast labeled 'c' in the photo.
The roast comprises two long, flat steaks sandwiching a layer of connective tissue. Generally in grocery stores, the roast will be skinned and split horizontally (removing the cartilage) into what are called flat-iron steaks or upper blade steaks. These flat steaks are best grilled like any other steak.
Sometimes the roast will be sliced vertically into small steaks (often called petite steaks) with the connective tissue in the center. Although you can grill these, this is really a braising cut. What makes this cut ideal is that with long, slow braising, the connective tissue melts into unctuousness.
Back in 2005, I published a recipe on the restaurant web site for braising these petite steaks.
The best cut of beef for braising (besides the shin) is a small (about 4 pound, 2 kg) roast from the shoulder. It sits between the shoulder blade and the neck and is called variously upper blade roast or top blade roast. My butcher calls it by the French name paleron. By whatever name, it has outstanding flavor.
In the trade, specify NAMP 114D. This brochure shows the full shoulder clod broken down into primals: the paleron is the roast labeled 'c' in the photo.
The roast comprises two long, flat steaks sandwiching a layer of connective tissue. Generally in grocery stores, the roast will be skinned and split horizontally (removing the cartilage) into what are called flat-iron steaks or upper blade steaks. These flat steaks are best grilled like any other steak.
Sometimes the roast will be sliced vertically into small steaks (often called petite steaks) with the connective tissue in the center. Although you can grill these, this is really a braising cut. What makes this cut ideal is that with long, slow braising, the connective tissue melts into unctuousness.
Back in 2005, I published a recipe on the restaurant web site for braising these petite steaks.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Meat Cutter, A Dying Breed
Working with as many small suppliers as we have is a constant challenge. This morning, I was on the phone with my game supplier discussing the last batch of buffalo flat-iron steaks that we bought from him. Clearly whoever did the meatcutting hadn't a clue about cutting flat-irons. My supplier mentioned that his supplier is a very small ranch that has just set up its own butcher shop and the owner was eager to learn how these steaks should be cut.
This conversation reminded me of the early days of working with our lamb supplier. Their butcher clearly had never worked with racks before. We would get in racks that were not well frenched (to french a rack is to clean off the rib bone tips for presentation—this is the standard rack you're used to seeing) and the chine bones would still be intact, preventing us from cutting the racks into chops. With much persistence, our lamb supplier got that corrected.
These two instances remind me just how difficult it is to find anyone who knows how to cut meat anymore. It's a sad state of affairs when I know more about it than the people cutting meat for me. In an interesting coincidence, just after I got off the phone with my game supplier this morning, someone from a brand new butcher shop came by the restaurant and left some business cards. Wouldn't it be nice to think that they know what they're doing? The cynic in me says it would be naïve to think that. We'll see.
If you have a local butcher shop, do your best to support it, before nobody understands how to cut meat any longer.
This conversation reminded me of the early days of working with our lamb supplier. Their butcher clearly had never worked with racks before. We would get in racks that were not well frenched (to french a rack is to clean off the rib bone tips for presentation—this is the standard rack you're used to seeing) and the chine bones would still be intact, preventing us from cutting the racks into chops. With much persistence, our lamb supplier got that corrected.
These two instances remind me just how difficult it is to find anyone who knows how to cut meat anymore. It's a sad state of affairs when I know more about it than the people cutting meat for me. In an interesting coincidence, just after I got off the phone with my game supplier this morning, someone from a brand new butcher shop came by the restaurant and left some business cards. Wouldn't it be nice to think that they know what they're doing? The cynic in me says it would be naïve to think that. We'll see.
If you have a local butcher shop, do your best to support it, before nobody understands how to cut meat any longer.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Mesclun
I got tickled last week when a customer asked if we could substitute a mixed baby green salad for the mesclun salad that accompanied her lunch entrée. No problem, the server reassured her, for unfortunately mesclun and baby greens are synonymous, at least at this time of year in this country. And that is a sad state of affairs. [Note to self: stop using the term mesclun on menus.]
If I recall correctly from those years of studying Old French and its precursor languages, the term mesclun comes from the south of France (from Langue d'Oc [Occitan] mescla from Old Occitan mesclar from Latin misculare) meaning mix. You'll note the similarity to the Latin in the modern Italian word for mesclun: misticanza.
In years past, mesclun referred to a mix of baby salad greens harvested in the wild, a mix with a lot of character and interesting, often bitter greens. In recent years however, these greens have undergone refinement and cultivation even in France, and while the French mix is decidedly richer in bitter greens and interest than the American mix, both are generally less interesting than in years past. In the US in particular, mesclun has seen a real dumbing down.
True mesclun contains greens, herbs, and sometimes flowers that are highly perishable and perishability is not a good trait for greens that have to travel the breadth of the US and still have some shelf life. Moreover, the American palate generally does not warm to bitter greens, so the so-called commercial mesclun mixes are now largely mild lettuces.
This isn't all that bad because we now have access to much more interesting lettuce mixes all year long than we had fifteen years ago. So, if mesclun is dumber, lettuce has gotten smarter. And I think more producers are owning up to the truth: most cases of greens that I see are labeled Spring Mix.
The best way I know to have great mesclun is to grow your own. In the years before chefdom, I used to collect interesting seeds from everywhere I went and I would create my own mixes. Stored in the freezer, the seeds would germinate well for many years.
After the exchange with the customer last week, I really didn't think any more about mesclun until I went on my produce company's web site (I can't wait for local lettuce season!) last night to order some salad greens for today. There on my order sheet was Lettuce, Mesculin Mix.
The word mesculin struck me immediately as a typo. But in the business, we hear it frequently enough. It's a really dumb, long standing, late night produce order joke: "You got any mescaline?" Stupid cook humor.
I have my doubts that mesculin is a real word. In Googling about the web, I found a couple of references that state that mesculin is derived directly from the Latin root without the intervening Occitan transformation. (You don't believe everything you read on the web, do you?) But I never could find any substantiation of this, nor could I find mesculin in any dictionary including the OED. (But my OED doesn't contain mesclun either—Oxonians, next time you get to 'M', it's time.) If anyone can document that mesculin is a real word, post a comment.
If I recall correctly from those years of studying Old French and its precursor languages, the term mesclun comes from the south of France (from Langue d'Oc [Occitan] mescla from Old Occitan mesclar from Latin misculare) meaning mix. You'll note the similarity to the Latin in the modern Italian word for mesclun: misticanza.
In years past, mesclun referred to a mix of baby salad greens harvested in the wild, a mix with a lot of character and interesting, often bitter greens. In recent years however, these greens have undergone refinement and cultivation even in France, and while the French mix is decidedly richer in bitter greens and interest than the American mix, both are generally less interesting than in years past. In the US in particular, mesclun has seen a real dumbing down.
True mesclun contains greens, herbs, and sometimes flowers that are highly perishable and perishability is not a good trait for greens that have to travel the breadth of the US and still have some shelf life. Moreover, the American palate generally does not warm to bitter greens, so the so-called commercial mesclun mixes are now largely mild lettuces.
This isn't all that bad because we now have access to much more interesting lettuce mixes all year long than we had fifteen years ago. So, if mesclun is dumber, lettuce has gotten smarter. And I think more producers are owning up to the truth: most cases of greens that I see are labeled Spring Mix.
The best way I know to have great mesclun is to grow your own. In the years before chefdom, I used to collect interesting seeds from everywhere I went and I would create my own mixes. Stored in the freezer, the seeds would germinate well for many years.
After the exchange with the customer last week, I really didn't think any more about mesclun until I went on my produce company's web site (I can't wait for local lettuce season!) last night to order some salad greens for today. There on my order sheet was Lettuce, Mesculin Mix.
The word mesculin struck me immediately as a typo. But in the business, we hear it frequently enough. It's a really dumb, long standing, late night produce order joke: "You got any mescaline?" Stupid cook humor.
I have my doubts that mesculin is a real word. In Googling about the web, I found a couple of references that state that mesculin is derived directly from the Latin root without the intervening Occitan transformation. (You don't believe everything you read on the web, do you?) But I never could find any substantiation of this, nor could I find mesculin in any dictionary including the OED. (But my OED doesn't contain mesclun either—Oxonians, next time you get to 'M', it's time.) If anyone can document that mesculin is a real word, post a comment.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Chimichurri, or Cooking by Feel
"I'd eat anything, if you'd put this sauce on it."
So said a customer to me on Saturday night in reference to the vibrant green sauce on her grilled veal skirt steak. While this sauce is good, mighty good, I might not give up my firstborn for it as this woman seemed inclined to do. Still, it is a simple and marvelous complement to any grilled meat, which is its role on its home turf in Argentina, where it is on practically every table and where grilled meat (asado) is practically a sport.
The first time I ever encountered chimichurri, I thought "this is nothing but a slightly modified Piemontese salsa verde." This shouldn't be surprising because Argentina was settled in large part by Italians. Like its provincial Italian forebear, chimichurri is a roughly chopped sauce. But, unlike salsa verde which often uses hard-boiled egg yolk as an emulsifier, chimichurri separates easily.
In Argentina and now throughout South America, each cook's sauce is slightly different from every other and if the truth be told, each time a cook makes the same sauce, it is different: a reflection of mood and ingredients on hand. Certainly, I never make the same sauce twice. My ingredients are fairly classical, though more sauces than not contain oregano and fewer contain cilantro. And shallots are a nod to fine dining: rough sauces would contain only garlic. Suit yourself.
Here's my rough starting point:
3/4 c red wine vinegar
1 bunch of Italian parsley, destemmed and roughly chopped
8-10 sprigs cilantro, destemmed and roughly chopped
2 large shallots, roughly chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 t black pepper
1/2 t salt
1/2 t crushed red pepper flakes
3/4 c extra virgin olive oil
And here's my rough procedure:
Chimichurri is not a smooth sauce. When I have time, I pound the solid ingredients out in a mortar and then add the oil and vinegar and season to taste. When I am pressed for time, as Saturday, or when I am making a big batch, the big VitaMix blender comes to the rescue. I might have used the RobotCoupe instead, but it was dirty.
When using a blender, make sure not to overblend. I add the vinegar, the rough chopped parsley/cilantro/oregano, and the rough chopped shallots and pulse the blender just to break the ingredients down into a chunky sauce. Then I mix in all the rest of the ingredients by hand and season to my whim.
Now on Saturday, after mixing up the batch for dinner, I thought it needed more bite, both from acid and from spice, so I added a couple extra tablespoons of red wine vinegar (I was going to add lemon juice, but the vinegar was at hand and the lemon was not), another big pinch of black pepper, and a larger pinch of crushed red pepper flakes. After it sat for an hour, it certainly got better, but I thought it needed more salt, so I added an extra pinch.
What I am trying to illustrate here is that recipes are merely guidelines and that ingredients, mood, circumstances, and the phase of the moon all influence the end product. At some point in your cooking career, you have to liberate yourself from recipes and cook by feel. Chimichurri is a great place to start.
Like some of us chefs, chimichurri gets better with age. Better to make it a day ahead. Refrigerate if the Health Department is looking over your shoulder.
So said a customer to me on Saturday night in reference to the vibrant green sauce on her grilled veal skirt steak. While this sauce is good, mighty good, I might not give up my firstborn for it as this woman seemed inclined to do. Still, it is a simple and marvelous complement to any grilled meat, which is its role on its home turf in Argentina, where it is on practically every table and where grilled meat (asado) is practically a sport.
The first time I ever encountered chimichurri, I thought "this is nothing but a slightly modified Piemontese salsa verde." This shouldn't be surprising because Argentina was settled in large part by Italians. Like its provincial Italian forebear, chimichurri is a roughly chopped sauce. But, unlike salsa verde which often uses hard-boiled egg yolk as an emulsifier, chimichurri separates easily.
In Argentina and now throughout South America, each cook's sauce is slightly different from every other and if the truth be told, each time a cook makes the same sauce, it is different: a reflection of mood and ingredients on hand. Certainly, I never make the same sauce twice. My ingredients are fairly classical, though more sauces than not contain oregano and fewer contain cilantro. And shallots are a nod to fine dining: rough sauces would contain only garlic. Suit yourself.
Here's my rough starting point:
3/4 c red wine vinegar
1 bunch of Italian parsley, destemmed and roughly chopped
8-10 sprigs cilantro, destemmed and roughly chopped
2 large shallots, roughly chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 t black pepper
1/2 t salt
1/2 t crushed red pepper flakes
3/4 c extra virgin olive oil
And here's my rough procedure:
Chimichurri is not a smooth sauce. When I have time, I pound the solid ingredients out in a mortar and then add the oil and vinegar and season to taste. When I am pressed for time, as Saturday, or when I am making a big batch, the big VitaMix blender comes to the rescue. I might have used the RobotCoupe instead, but it was dirty.
When using a blender, make sure not to overblend. I add the vinegar, the rough chopped parsley/cilantro/oregano, and the rough chopped shallots and pulse the blender just to break the ingredients down into a chunky sauce. Then I mix in all the rest of the ingredients by hand and season to my whim.
Now on Saturday, after mixing up the batch for dinner, I thought it needed more bite, both from acid and from spice, so I added a couple extra tablespoons of red wine vinegar (I was going to add lemon juice, but the vinegar was at hand and the lemon was not), another big pinch of black pepper, and a larger pinch of crushed red pepper flakes. After it sat for an hour, it certainly got better, but I thought it needed more salt, so I added an extra pinch.
What I am trying to illustrate here is that recipes are merely guidelines and that ingredients, mood, circumstances, and the phase of the moon all influence the end product. At some point in your cooking career, you have to liberate yourself from recipes and cook by feel. Chimichurri is a great place to start.
Like some of us chefs, chimichurri gets better with age. Better to make it a day ahead. Refrigerate if the Health Department is looking over your shoulder.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Sweetbreads
Tonight was a pretty busy night, with two-thirds of the restaurant filling up in about an hour. We were all hustling and that was a good thing, because I wasn't feeling my best. Better to be busy and keep my mind from thinking that I feel lousy. And we were so busy that I had no time to think about what was and was not moving on the menu.
So it wasn't until we were packing up that I noticed the pan of sweetbreads in my cooler, untouched. It's been a long time since I've run sweetbreads on the menu. In the best of times, they sell only slowly, which is a real shame for they are superb eating. Even if we don't sell them, they won't go to waste. The staff will make short work of them.
As I was putting the pan back in the walk-in, I thought it was really a shame to go through all the hard work—soaking the sweetbreads in many changes of cold water, poaching them, peeling and cleaning them, and weighting and pressing them—and then to have nobody order them.
Customers always want to know what sweetbreads are. They're one of two glands, the long and narrow thymus from the neck, or the plumper and rounder pancreas from near the stomach. This batch I have now is some really prime pancreas glands and the large ones such as this give us many more cooking options. Although they can come from several animals, we always serve the very mild veal sweetbreads. They have a very mild veal flavor with a creamy texture that makes them one of the world's great delicacies.
I plan to slice them into roughly centimeter thick slices, dredge them in flour, and sauté them with a bit of pancetta. Then I will deglaze the pan with a bit of shallots and white wine, and finish with a touch of veal demiglace and butter. The sauce will go over the sweetbreads. Those that are brave enough to order this dish will be happy indeed.
So it wasn't until we were packing up that I noticed the pan of sweetbreads in my cooler, untouched. It's been a long time since I've run sweetbreads on the menu. In the best of times, they sell only slowly, which is a real shame for they are superb eating. Even if we don't sell them, they won't go to waste. The staff will make short work of them.
As I was putting the pan back in the walk-in, I thought it was really a shame to go through all the hard work—soaking the sweetbreads in many changes of cold water, poaching them, peeling and cleaning them, and weighting and pressing them—and then to have nobody order them.
Customers always want to know what sweetbreads are. They're one of two glands, the long and narrow thymus from the neck, or the plumper and rounder pancreas from near the stomach. This batch I have now is some really prime pancreas glands and the large ones such as this give us many more cooking options. Although they can come from several animals, we always serve the very mild veal sweetbreads. They have a very mild veal flavor with a creamy texture that makes them one of the world's great delicacies.
I plan to slice them into roughly centimeter thick slices, dredge them in flour, and sauté them with a bit of pancetta. Then I will deglaze the pan with a bit of shallots and white wine, and finish with a touch of veal demiglace and butter. The sauce will go over the sweetbreads. Those that are brave enough to order this dish will be happy indeed.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Old Friends
When restaurateurs get together, we often rant about the economy and customers who we feel have ill treated us: it's our therapy. From listening to us, you might conclude that there is little joy in this business. You'd be wrong to conclude that, however.
Last night was one of those magical nights in this business when we were very busy (on a normally slow Thursday night when it was pouring rain and sleet) and yet every table came out to have a good time. The happiness in the dining room was palpable even in the kitchen.
It was also a special night because one of our regular tables returned. This couple live in New York state, but winter in Florida. Each year for the past four years, they have stopped at our restaurant on the way back to New York. And we anticipate their visit each year.
Does four visits in four years make you a regular? You tell me. We know their names; we know them by sight; we know about their business and their children and grandchildren; they have their table; she tells the server, "Ed knows how I want my steak." And each year, she asks for an extra napkin and water goblet and she folds the napkin into a beautiful rose and places it the water goblet.
This year, I was so busy that she brought the rose into the kitchen and gave it to me along with a hug. All four roses are displayed on the shelf in my office like trophies, as reminders of why I am really in this business.
This business, as hard as it is, can be extremely rewarding.
Last night was one of those magical nights in this business when we were very busy (on a normally slow Thursday night when it was pouring rain and sleet) and yet every table came out to have a good time. The happiness in the dining room was palpable even in the kitchen.
It was also a special night because one of our regular tables returned. This couple live in New York state, but winter in Florida. Each year for the past four years, they have stopped at our restaurant on the way back to New York. And we anticipate their visit each year.
Does four visits in four years make you a regular? You tell me. We know their names; we know them by sight; we know about their business and their children and grandchildren; they have their table; she tells the server, "Ed knows how I want my steak." And each year, she asks for an extra napkin and water goblet and she folds the napkin into a beautiful rose and places it the water goblet.
This year, I was so busy that she brought the rose into the kitchen and gave it to me along with a hug. All four roses are displayed on the shelf in my office like trophies, as reminders of why I am really in this business.
This business, as hard as it is, can be extremely rewarding.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
