How to Eat
Page 14
4 tablespoons olive oil, plus more, if needed
5½ pounds boned shoulder of lamb, trimmed of excess fat and cut into cubes about 1½ by 2½ inches
5 medium onions, sliced finely
salt
4 garlic cloves, minced
2 celery stalks, minced
leaves from 4 thyme sprigs
1 teaspoon dried oregano
3 bay leaves
2 carrots, peeled, halved lengthways, and then halved across
3 cans (14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes
1¼ cups lamb or beef stock or water
1 bottle dry white wine
freshly milled black pepper
1 pound ditalini or other smallish tubular pasta
2/3 pound feta
2–3 tablespoons finely chopped parsley, oregano or basil
Preheat the oven to 325°F.
Into the largest saucepan or casserole you have that will go in the oven, pour 3 tablespoons of the oil. Brown the meat in batches over high heat and remove with a slotted spoon to a plate nearby. You may need to add more oil as you do this. The onions will certainly need it, so pour in the remaining oil or add more, add the onions, sprinkling a little salt over them, and cook them until soft and translucent. Add the garlic, celery, thyme, and oregano. After a couple of minutes or so, when the smell of garlic wafts up, remove half the mixture. Add the meat to the mixture in the pan, cover with the remaining half, add the bay leaves, carrots, tomatoes, stock, and wine. I use a big but flattish casserole and this amount of liquid covers the meat, but if you find you need more liquid, add water—you want a lot of liquid, because you will, eventually, be cooking some pasta in it. Bring to the boil, remove scum, and let bubble for about 3 minutes. Then cover, transfer to the oven, and bake for about 2–2½ hours, or cook on a very low heat. The meat should be tender and yielding. Remove the carrots (and eat, cook’s treat) and bay leaves, too, if you want, and season to taste with the salt and pepper.
Of course you can proceed to the final stage now, but I am presuming you’re not going to. In which case, let the stew cool and keep it in the fridge until you want it. Skim the fat off the top, and do remember to take it out of the fridge a good 1–2 hours before you cook it again. You can reheat this in the oven, but because the pasta will be put in it on the stove, I tend to heat it there. Make sure the stew is piping hot. Meanwhile, bring a large pot of water to the boil. When it boils, add salt and then the pasta. Cook this till it’s nearly but not quite cooked; it should have a couple of minutes still to go.
Then drain the pasta and add it quickly to the bubbling juices in the casserole, making sure first that there are enough bubbling juices. You don’t want the meat to be drowned, but you want enough for the pasta to be covered. The pasta will absorb some of the liquid as it finishes cooking, of course.
In a couple of minutes, the pasta should be cooked. Crumble some feta and put in a bowl with the chopped parsley, oregano, or basil. Stir to combine and then leave the spoon with it, so that people can sprinkle the herb-spiked cheese over the stew as they wish. Ladle the stew into shallow soup bowls. This should be plenty for about 10.
One of the advantages of the following stew—apart from its honeyed and luscious taste—is that it can be done seriously in advance: that’s to say, you can leave the venison in its marinade for 2–3 days in the fridge and then put the cooked casserole back in the fridge when it’s cold, where it can stay for another 2–3 days.
I don’t necessarily scale down the quantities if I’m cooking for fewer people (these quantities are enough for about 8) because the oniony juices, with or without the leftover meat, make the most fabulous pasta sauce the next day.
VENISON IN WHITE WINE
FOR THE MARINADE
1 bottle dry white wine
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 bay leaves
2 medium carrots, sliced finely
1 large onion, sliced finely
2 celery stalks, sliced finely
2 garlic cloves, squashed with flat of knife
10 juniper berries, crushed slightly
10 black peppercorns, crushed slightly
3 1/3 pounds venison stew meat, cut into chunks about 1½ by 2½ inches
¼ cup dried porcini
½ cup goose or duck fat or 8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter plus a drop olive oil
6 medium onions, very finely sliced
1 tablespoon sugar
3 sage leaves
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon grated nutmeg
salt and freshly milled black pepper
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
1¼ cups beef stock, plus more, if needed
2/3 pounds mushrooms, preferably cremini
1–2 tablespoons chopped parsley
Put the marinade ingredients into a bowl and add the venison. Give a good stir, cover with plastic film, and leave overnight somewhere cool. If the weather’s warm (though you are unlikely to be wanting to eat this in summer) or you just want to stow this away for a few days, then put it to marinate in the fridge, but make sure you take it out and get it back to room temperature before you want to cook it.
When you do, preheat the oven to 300°F and, at the same time, cover the porcini with hot water. Then put 1⁄3 cup of the goose or duck fat or 5 tablespoons of the butter and the drop of oil in a large casserole and, when it’s melted, add the onions and cook for 10–15 minutes or until the onions are soft and translucent. Strain the dried mushrooms, reserving the water, and then chop them very small. Add these to the onion and give a good stir. Cook gently for another minute or so, stir again, then sprinkle with the sugar. Turn up the heat and caramelize slightly and then add the sage and spices. Tear a piece of foil about the same measurements as the casserole and place it just above the onions. Turn the heat to low—you may need to use a heat diffuser—and cook for 30–40 minutes, lifting up the foil every now and again to give a gentle prod and stir. You want a brown, sweet mess under there.
Pour the venison into a colander or strainer placed over a saucepan. Then pick out the marinade ingredients or meat (whichever is easier). Remove half the onions from the pan and cover the half still in it with the venison. Season with the salt and pepper, sprinkle with the flour, and cover with the rest of the onions. Heat up the marinade liquid in its pan, add the stock and reserved, strained mushroom-soaking liquid, and pour over the venison. If the meat isn’t covered, you can add some more stock (though heat it up first) or wine (ditto). Put in the preheated oven and cook for about 2½ hours or until very tender indeed.
You can now let this cool and keep it in the fridge for 2–3 days. Forty minutes at 350°F or on the stove, should be enough to reheat it, but do remember it should be brought back to room temperature first. About 15 minutes before the stew is hot again, wipe the mushrooms, cut them into quarters, heat the remaining fat or butter in a small frying pan, and cook the mushrooms in it, sprinkling with salt and pepper. After about 5 minutes, add the mushrooms to the stew in the oven. Let the stew cook for another 10 minutes.
Sprinkle the stew with the parsley when you serve it. I always have this with mashed potatoes and I like sliced green beans with it, too.
Cooking chicken in white wine is hardly revolutionary, but then the point of cooking is not to surprise but, gratifyingly, to satisfy. Chicken doesn’t benefit from sitting around in its cooking juices for as long as meat does—you want the meat to be tender rather than sodden—but a day or two definitely helps with brown meat.
CHICKEN AND CHICKPEA TAGINE
I have done this stew with dried, soaked, and cooked chickpeas and with canned, and it is, I have to tell you, better with dried. I cook them till more or less tender first. If you want to substitute canned ones, add 2 or 3 cans of them, drained, on reheating.
You can choose whether or not you want to keep the skin on your chicken thighs, but make certain they have not been boned.
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br /> ½ pound dried chickpeas
1 large onion
5 garlic cloves
1 celery stalk
3 tablespoons olive oil
10 chicken thighs
2 carrots, peeled and cut into French fry–like sticks
1 tablespoon Italian 00 or all-purpose flour
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon each ground cumin and turmeric
1 2/3 cups white wine
1¼ cups light chicken stock
salt and freshly milled black pepper
2–3 tablespoons fresh coriander, for serving
Soak and cook the chickpeas, following instructions on page 78 but removing them from the pot slightly before they’re soft. Drain and reserve.
Put the onion, garlic, and celery in a processor and pulse till chopped. Put the oil in a casserole or tagine, put it on the stove, and, when hot, brown the chicken thighs; remove to a plate. Now add the onion mixture to the casserole and cook till soft—about 5 minutes—then add the carrots and cook for another 5 minutes. Mix the flour with the spices and stir in, cooking for a couple of minutes. Put the chicken pieces back in, add the chickpeas, and pour over the wine and stock. Season and cook on a low heat, covered, for about 1 hour. Let cool and then stick in the fridge for up to 3 days.
Sprinkle the coriander on top. I love eating this with a pile of pinenut-sprinkled couscous to the side. Serves 4–5.
This next stew resolutely uses red wine, and makes the most of it, too. I think it is a waste, almost, if you don’t cook it in advance, as the anchovies seem to get mellower after a day or two’s soaking. It’s delicious straight off, too, but you get its full, deep-bellied roundness when it’s given time to rest and wallow between cooking and reheating. I don’t think you should necessarily tell people about the anchovies. In my experience, many people who claim not to be able to stomach them love this stew.
BEEF STEW WITH ANCHOVIES AND THYME
I love this with mashed or baked potatoes (with sour cream) and some cold-sour fat gerkins, sliced, or little cornichons just as they are. I sometimes make (and see Weekend Lunch, page 193) a horseradish–yogurt sauce to go with it, too. It doesn’t need anything to spruce it up in itself, but stews are useful in this way: what you do to them, with them, when you eat, entirely changes the mood of the meal. You could just as easily use lamb here, by the way.
3 tablespoons olive oil, plus more, if needed
3 1/3 pounds beef stew meat, cut into chunky strips about 1½ by 2½ inches
1 large onion, halved lengthwise and finely sliced
5 cloves garlic, minced
3 medium carrots, peeled and cut in fat matchstick-sized pieces
4 inner stalks celery, finely sliced
6 anchovy fillets, well drained and minced
2 tablespoons dried thyme or 1½ tablespoons fresh
2 tablespoons Marsala
2 cups robust red wine
1¼ cups beef stock
2 heaping tablespoons all-purpose flour
1 tablespoon tomato paste
½ teaspoon mace
freshly milled black pepper
salt, if necessary
Preheat the oven to 300°F. Put a casserole on the stove with oil. Heat and then brown the meat briskly in batches; do not overcrowd the casserole or the meat will steam rather than sear. Remove the meat to a plate and then, first adding more oil if necessary, toss in the vegetables, anchovies, and thyme. Cook, turning frequently, on medium heat for about 10 minutes or until the mixture is beginning to soften. While this is going on, heat the Marsala, wine, and stock in a saucepan and remove when it reaches boiling point.
Return the beef to the pan and then stir in the flour. After a couple of minutes or so, pour in the wine mixture and stir well, then stir in the tomato paste and then the mace and some pepper. Taste and add salt, if you want.
Put on a lid and then cook in the preheated oven for 3 hours. Remove, cool, and then keep in the fridge until needed. I tend to reheat in the casserole on the stove. Serves 6–8.
I love game birds roasted; I like them plain, with bread sauce, a port-fortified gravy perhaps, some salty bacon fried to a bronzy puce, with English mustard and nutty fried bread crumbs. But a girl’s got to have a casserole under her belt, too, if only because game birds tend quite often to be beyond roasting. This way of casseroling pheasant is a recipe—unfancy, reliable, and just what you need—of the estimable Anne Willan’s (from Real Food: Fifty Years of Good Eating) and is great with birds that have dwindled into toughness.
Ask the butcher to cut up the pheasants for you and try to get the bacon or pancetta from him at the same time. I like using half veal and half chicken stock (I tend to buy my veal stock), but if I’ve got some game stock in the freezer, I’ll use that. You will have lots of little bits of bird here, so each portion will be very small, of course; you should get enough for about 8 people out of 3 birds. If you want, substitute guinea fowl for the pheasant and white wine for the red.
BRAISED PHEASANT WITH MUSHROOMS AND BACON
1 tablespoon vegetable oil
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter
3 pheasants, about 1 pound each, cut into 6 pieces each
1 pound mushrooms, quartered
20–24 baby onions, peeled
½-pound piece pancetta, cut into lardons
¼ cup all-purpose flour
2½ cups red wine
2½ cups veal or chicken stock, or more if needed
2 garlic cloves, crushed
bouquet garni (see page xx)
salt and freshly milled black pepper
Heat the oil and butter in a casserole and brown the pheasant pieces, a few at a time. Take them out, add the mushrooms, and cook until tender, about 5 minutes. Remove them with a slotted spoon, add the onions, and cook until brown, shaking the casserole so that they color evenly. Remove the onions, add the pancetta, and brown it too.
Discard all but 2 tablespoons fat, stir the flour into the pancetta, and cook gently, stirring until brown. Stir in the wine, bring to the boil, and simmer for 5 minutes. Add the stock, garlic, bouquet garni, and salt and pepper to taste, and return the mushrooms, onion, and the pheasant pieces to the casserole. Cover and simmer on the stove or cook in a 350°F oven until the meat is very tender when pierced with a fork. Cooking time varies from 1 to 2 hours, depending on the age of the pheasants. Stir from time to time, especially if cooking on the stove, and add more stock if the meat begins to stick. The wing and breast pieces may finish cooking before the legs; if so, take them out first.
Discard the bouquet garni and taste the sauce for seasoning. Now, you can let the casserole cool, then put it in the fridge and take it out when you need it, up to 3 days later. Reheat it on top of the stove or in a 350°F oven for about 30 minutes.
Instead of the usual mashed potatoes, this stew—and, indeed, any of them—is wonderful with bulghur, or cracked wheat, however you like to call it. This has the advantage of being quicker and much less laborious to make than mashed potatoes, too; you can get on with it while you reheat the stew.
For 8 people, you need 4 cups of bulghur and 4 cups of water. Melt 3 tablespoons of butter in a heavy-bottomed saucepan (which has a lid that fits) and stir in the bulghur till all coated. Then add the water, bring to the boil, add a good pinch of salt, cover, and turn down the heat to the absolute minimum. Use a heat diffuser, preferably. Cook for about 30 minutes or until all the water is absorbed and the bulghur is cooked but not soft; it should still be nutty in texture. You can leave the bulghur, when it’s cooked, with the lid on but the pan off the heat, for 10 minutes or so without harm.
VEGETABLES
* * *
One could go on forever with stews, braises, casseroles; the permutations are enormous, and I can’t think of one that couldn’t be cooked in advance. Vegetables are a different matter. Few vegetables take long to cook, and now you can get most ready trimmed, chopped, even utterly prepared for you at many supe
rmarkets. I make three exceptions to the “quickly cooked” list: ratatouille, moussaka, and petits pois à la française. Of course there are other vegetable braises that you could add to this list—fava beans with bacon, certainly, and stewed artichokes—but most vegetable dishes that can be left sitting around to be reheated later are variations (technically, at any rate) on this theme.
I know some would argue that you can’t cook and then reheat ratatouille, that it will go mushy and lose its vibrant, just-cooked freshness. But I like it softened slightly in the pan, the flavors still discrete but mingling into one another, everything sweet and steeped. But perhaps that’s because my mother always had a bowl of ratatouille in the fridge; I remember it beginning to go soggy in its garlicky syrup.
RATATOUILLE
I couldn’t remember exactly how my mother made ratatouille and didn’t know if she used 2 zucchini or 3, or how many minutes she fried them. Pinpoint accuracy disappears with recipes you do often, but somehow I felt even more at a loss in transcribing this one from memory. And so, working on the principle that my mother would have consulted her, I turned to Elizabeth David. I’m not sure what follows is something Mrs. David would be pleased with, if only because I have ignored something she is very firm about indeed: I never bother with salting and draining eggplant, and am not now going to start degorging zucchini, either. Neglecting this stage hasn’t resulted in a hopelessly soggy mess, otherwise I’m sure we, mère et fille, would have done as we were told in the first place. But if you feel it’s important, then by all means cut the eggplant and zucchini into unpeeled ¼-inch-thick rounds, sprinkle with salt, and put in a colander with a plate on top of them, a weight on top of the plate, and leave all that in place for an hour or so, then rinse the vegetables and wipe them dry with kitchen paper.
I have also boosted the number of zucchini in Elizabeth David’s recipe and decreased the amount of eggplant, simply because I like zucchini more than I like eggplant. She suggests 2 coffee cups of olive oil, which I reckon is about 10 tablespoons.
The vegetables in a ratatouille are cooked in this order—onions first, then eggplant, zucchini, garlic and peppers, and lastly tomatoes. You can either prepare all the vegetables before you start, as the recipe indicates, or one at a time, chucking them into the pan in the right order.