SG Archives: Lamb Daube

Call Me Sentimental



It's lambing season. At least it is in Missouri where, last Sunday, Clare, one of Susan's ewes, gave birth. Call me sentimental, but when I see a cute little lamb like that it immediately brings to mind images of fields turning green, new buds on trees, daffodils, birds calling for mates, and dinner. Somehow piglets don't affect me the same way — I go straight to thoughts of dinner.

For some reason, a lot of Americans don't like lamb — or at least they think they don't. I suspect they've just never had well-prepared lamb. We don't have a tradition of eating it here and so many people have no idea how to fix it. And, too, lamb has a slightly gamey taste and, for palates used to the insipid blandness of most American beef and pork, lamb is like granola when you're used to shredded wheat.

For palates used to the insipid blandness of most American beef and pork, lamb is like granola when you're used to shredded wheat.

This isn't the case in the Mediterranean countries where lamb and even mutton have a long and honored tradition. Spain, Greece, Morocco, and Turkey are all big on lamb, as is France. For instance, the LaRousse Gastronomique lists more than 130 ways of cooking lamb from the mundane lamb chop (Cotelettes d'Agneau) to lamb's head (Tête d'Agneau a l'Écossaise) — and that's not counting mutton.

I know this because I was looking for a traditional French lamb recipe. In addition to checking LaRousse I did the usual Google scan and looked though Julia Child, Patricia Wells, and the handy-dandy, full-color, for-a-limited-time-only Time/Life Book of Lamb that I got for 95 cents at a used book store. I finally settled on making a daube. You can't get much more traditional than stew because stews have been part of most cuisines since pottery was invented. In addition, it's been cold and snowy here — good stew weather.

Daubes are a distinctly French take on stew. In a daube the meat is marinated with vegetables and herbs in wine for some period of time (I have a beef recipe that calls for marinating for 48 hours). I wanted to do a daube with a Provençal accent and found a number of ideas on the Web and in my books. Lemon is the most common citrus used in Mediterranean cooking, but I found one recipe calling for orange peel that sounded interesting and Child suggested capers and anchovies. I decided to skip the capers and but go with anchovy paste.

To accompany the daube I made mashed rutabagas and fixed an apple crisp for dessert. And wine. I needed wine for the marinade and, just to be contrary, I decided on a New Zealand Pinot Noir. Specifically, I bought a bottle of Dyed-in-the-Wool — it just seemed appropriate.

Daube d'Agneau a la Provençal
Serves 6.

2 lb lamb — cut into 3"4" cubes
1 lg onion — peeled and diced
3 carrots — peeled and diced
2 cloves garlic — smashed
1 orange — zested
2 bay leaves
1 tbsp dried Herbes de Province
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tsp salt
1 tsp black pepper
1/2 btl red wine
6 slice bacon
1 can diced tomatoes, 15 oz
1/2 c flour, for dredging
1 c beef stock
1 tbsp anchovy paste

Mix together lamb, onions, carrots, garlic, orange zest, bay, herbs, olive oil, salt, pepper, and wine in a large Dutch oven. Allow to marinate for 3 hours, mixing occasionally.

Heat oven to 325F.

Drain and reserve marinade. Separate meat from vegetables (reserving vegetables) and pat dry. Dredge lamb in flour, shaking off excess.

Lay three strips of bacon on the bottom of a Dutch oven. Sprinkle with half the veggies, add half the tomatoes including juice, add half the lamb. Repeat. Pour in marinade and add enough beef stock to almost, but not quite, cover the mixture. Bring to a simmer on top of the stove and then cover and place in lower third of oven.

Cook for 1 1/2 hours. Remove cover and stir in anchovy paste. Return to oven and cook, uncovered, another 1/2 hour.

The daube was outstanding — seriously good. As expected the anchovy disappeared as an identifiable flavor but brought depth and savor to the dish. (Anchovies can be sly little fishies.) The orange zest was best described as seriously fun. It didn't particularly stand out, but it did quietly and firmly make its presence known and it made me smile every time I noticed it.

The rutabaga, simply seasoned with salt, butter, and a couple of tablespoons of maple syrup, was an excellent accompaniment — a combination of bitter and sweet to supplement the savory stew. The wine? Oh well. It worked fine in the daube but as for drinking it was a bit closer to dye than I would have wished. Drinkable, but only just.

Originally published in February 2006.

Try this daube with...
Mashed Rutabaga with Maple Syrup and Bourbon
Spiced Apples
Potatoes Parmigiano

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Tartiflette au Reblochon

Stinky Cheese and Potatoes



I don't do New Year's resolutions — in fact that resolution is the only one I've ever kept. However, a year ago I decided to eat less meat. I was prompted by a couple of factors, first I wanted to simply eat less meat simply because I decided I was eating too much meat and second because when I did eat meat I wanted to take more care in sourcing it from local producers — and at those prices I can't afford to eat a lot of meat.

As a consequence I've become more sensitive to main-dish recipes that include little or, well, little meat. Somehow I just can't quite get to the point of going completely meatless. However, there are loads of dishes such as stir fries, casseroles, soups, and so on that, while they include some meat, it doesn't hold center place. When I saw a recipe for Tartiflette, a potato and cheese casserole form the Savoy region of France that contains a bit of bacon I immediately had to learn more.

The word "reblochon" is derived from reblessa, which means "to steal."

From what I could find tartiflette isn't a traditional recipe but was created in the 80s by an association of reblochon cheese-makers to promote their cheese. Reblochon is a soft, washed-rind cheese similar to brie in appearance. Unlike brie, though, it's a somewhat "stinky" cheese.

The word "reblochon" is derived from reblessa, which means "to steal." During the middle ages the farmers were taxed on their milk so they would milk once for the tax collectors and then sneak back out later and milk the cows a second time thus stealing the milk. The second milking produced milk much higher in butter fat. The true reblochon is made fome raw milk and is aged no more than six to eight weeks. Because it's aged less than 90 days the true reblochon can't be imported.

Although gruyere is often recommended as a replacement, gruyere is a hard waxy cheese. On the recommendation of a cheese expert, I chose Italian talegio as a substitute, he also suggested Italian Bel Paese. A French chef on a forum suggested a young French raclette as well and I can see that working.

I was really pleased with the dish. It's deeply rich and savory with an unctious mouthfeel and a distinctly pungent odor.

Tartiflette
Serves 6.

1 1/2 lb Yukon Gold potatoes — peeled
1/2 lb reblochon (or telagio, bel paese, or soft raclette)
5 oz bacon
1 md onion — diced
1/4 c dry white wine
6 tbsp crème fraiche
Salt and pepper
1 tbsp butter

Choose potatoes that are roughly the same size, and boil for about 20 minutes until slightly tender but not cooked through. Drain and allow to cool.

Heat oven to 350F.

Slice cheese 1/4-inch thick and do not remove rind. Reserve.

Cook bacon in a skillet over medium low heat until just slightly crisp. Drain bacon on a paper towel and pour all but about a tablespoon of bacon grease out of the skillet. Let bacon cool a bit, then chop very coarsely. Increase heat to medium and sauté until translucent. Add wine and reduce by half.

Cut potatoes into 1/3-inch thick slices. Butter a 9-inch casserole dish (the photo above is of individual casseroles) and layer 1/2 of potatoes in the bottom. Season generously with salt and pepper. Spread with crème fraiche. Then layer with onions, bacon, and half the cheese.

Layer on remaining potatoes, season with salt and pepper, and add remaining cheese. Cover with foil and bake for 1 hour. Remove foil, turn on broiler, and broil until golden brown.

Try the tarteflette with...
Braised Red Cabbage
Pureed Cauliflower
Triple Fudge Brownies

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Paisano: Cassoulet

Paisano: Cassoulet



I got a call from the Paisano about a week ago. He was in Sonoma (California) visiting a friend who raises sheep and had been bragging about my lamb sausage: my lamb sausage. I was flabbergasted because as a rule, while the old bastard admits I can cook, he refuses to admit I can do anything better than he can. In this case his friend was trying to empty his reefer (walk in freezer) of what was left of last year's lamb and asked Paisano for suggestions: bless his heart, Paisano suggested my sausage.

The trip at that point had taken months, largely on foot, and his baby sister died on the way.

This acknowledgment was pretty cool on it's own, but a few days later I got another call from Paisano and I gained a bit more insight into his past - something far harder to come by than a complement. Specifically he called to tell me about the cassoulet he'd made using my lamb sausage.

The cassoulet with lamb sausage had brought back memories of a cassoulet he'd had when he was in his early teens and fleeing a communist crackdown. As best I could tell, the journey was in the decade following World War II and his mother, older brother, he, and his sisters were trying to get to Bordeaux where they had family. Shortly after reaching France they were briefly taken in by a family in Toulouse. The trip at that point had taken months, largely on foot, and his baby sister died on the way. The rest of them were near starvation by the time they reached the city.

That night they feasted on cassoulet: white beans with pork, duck, and in this case lamb sausage. The meal was too rich for their stomachs and they were all sick after eating it. But they had more the next day and this time kept it down. They stayed a few days longer, recovering their strength and the French family managed to arrange transportation for them all the way to Bordeaux. Paisano's luck had changed 50 years ago in Toulouse and the cassoulet he'd just made in Sonoma with lamb sausage brought back the memory of that time when life had once again confounded expectations by being good when pain was expected.

I've thought about that phone conversation since then to figure out more about him than he admits to. And I suspect the Paisano is Romano - a Gypsy. I suspect this because the family wasn't simply fleeing enemies in their homeland, but feared enemies all along the way. They might have been Jewish, but Paisano is too off-the-edge for that to ring true to me and his features don't seem to have come from that ethnic group. And, well, look at the way he lives, always on the road despite his home base at Lake Tahoe.

I may never know the Paisano's complete story. I'd love to, but I also enjoy, perhaps even more, playing by his rules and trying to figure it out on my own. And whatever his origins, he's certainly right about how good cassoulet is with lamb sausage, even when you're not starving.

Cassoulet
Serves 8.

1 pound dried cannellini beans (great northern beans or navy beans may be used)
1 celery stalk, broken in half
1 carrot, broken in half
2 large yellow onions, 1 peeled and cut in half, the other peeled and diced
4 ounces pancetta
10-12 sprigs of thyme, tied in a bundle
2 bay leaves
2 quarts duck stock (or chicken stock)
2 tablespoons salt
2 country-style pork ribs (about 12 ounces)
5 tablespoons duck fat (or olive oil)
2 links (1/2 pound) lamb garlic sausage or any other fresh link sausage
4 tablespoons minced garlic, separated
1 14-ounce can diced tomatoes
2 duck legs confit (about 12 ounces with bone in), you can use fresh duck or chicken if confit is unavailable
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
1 cup bread crumbs

Pick over beans and add to a large pot along with carrot, celery, the onion cut in half, pancetta, thyme and bay leaves. Add stock and bring just to a boil over high heat, then reduce heat and simmer for 3 hours. Top up liquid with water as needed to keep all ingredients covered.

Cool beans then pick out vegetables and herbs and discard. Cut up pancetta and return to pot.

Meanwhile, preheat oven to 225 degrees.

Season pork ribs with salt and pepper and brown on all sides in a tablespoon of duck fat in a cast iron skillet. Cover skillet with aluminum foil, place in oven and cook until the beans are done -- about 3 hours. Allow to cool.

Place sausages and two tablespoons of duck fat in a skillet with 1/2 inch of water. Simmer for 4 minutes, turn sausage over, and simmer until all water is gone. Brown sausages and set aside.

Add another tablespoon of duck fat (if needed) to sausage skillet and add diced onions. Sautee over medium heat for 4 minutes, stirring as needed to prevent burning. Stir in 3 tablespoons minced garlic and cook 1 minute longer. Mix onions into beans along with diced tomatoes and their juice.

Add last tablespoon of duck fat to skillet and toss in breadcrumbs and remaining tablespoon of minced garlic. Cook until lightly browned. Reserve.

If you're using fresh duck or chicken, season it generously with salt and pepper and brown it in the skillet with a tablespoon of oil or fat.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Combine all the ingredients except breadcrumbs in a deep casserole or Dutch oven, but make sure beans cover all the meat to keep it from drying out. You may need to add a bit of liquid, just enough to bring the level slightly below the top. Water works, but so does either red or white wine and wine adds more flavor. Sprinkle with breadcrumbs to form a crust.

Bake, uncovered, for 1 hour. Remove from oven, cool and refrigerate overnight.

The next day, preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Remove meat from bones and slice sausage into rounds then stir back in along with the crust. Cook for 1 hour and serve.

I like a red wine with this dish, but white is fine. A green salad with vinaigrette is the perfect side dish.

Note: Paisano is a fictitious character developed for Gather.com.

Technorati: Food | recipe | kevin d weeks | seriously good | cassoulet | beans | french

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Paisano: Duck Rillettes

For years I thought the Paisano was essentially a bum. A charming, well-groomed, erudite bum who could cook like a top chef, but a bum nevertheless. He spent most of his life wandering from place to place, he certainly didn't work for a living, and he seemed to survive largely on the generosity of others (including me). So it was a tremendous surprise when, shortly after moving to California, he invited me to spend Thanksgiving with him in Tahoe. Frankly, knowing he sometimes house-sat for friends, I assumed that was the case here. I had no other plans for T'day and hadn't been to Tahoe before, so I readily agreed.

I drove up on Thanksgiving, a glorious sunny day, forsaking the Interstate and instead taking a blue highway that wound slowly into the mountains. There'd been a couple of snows already, but the roads were clear and it was a delightful drive. I'd bought one of Charles Kuralt's books on tape and his warm baritone, telling of his travels across the country, was the perfect company. After a couple of wrong turns I finally found the place: a medium-sized, 1 1/2-story log cabin some distance out of town on the lake.

The rillettes were a revelation, how could something so simple taste so good?

The cabin had huge great room/dining area/kitchen dominated by a stone fireplace in which a fire was crackling noisily. The mantle featured a huge copper tray that I recognized as Arabic. Beside the chimney were five or six of shelves featuring a huge collection of ceramic and terracotta platters and bowls. The other walls sported a few impressionistic watercolors, which I subsequently learned were originals, not prints. A stairway led up to a loft and the second of two bedrooms.

As you might expect, the kitchen drew my attention. It sported a commercial (genuinely commercial) range, a large work island, a fridge, and a huge soapstone sink. The cabinets were stained green (as was all the trim in the house) and a similarly green door led into what I found was a walk-in pantry — thus sealing my complete envy. It almost goes without saying that the house smelled wonderful.

Paisano was making duck confit, or I should say, he'd just finished making duck confit. There were half a dozen legs cooling on a pan. Also on the counter was a pork loin — our Thanksgiving dinner. We sat and had a couple of glasses of wine and caught up, and that's when I learned the cabin belonged to him.

He told me it stood vacant much of the year, except for a housekeeper who kept an eye on it and dusted and vacuumed as needed. As we chatted I learned he kept the cabin because he needed a place to keep the few things he valued — the paintings (it turned he'd done several of them), his collection of platters and bowls, and a few other things. And also, despite his wanderlust, he found that he needed a home base where he could paint, and cook, and catch his breath. I also learned that my invitation to the cabin was an exceptional honor. It was his private space and he seldom shared it with others.

We started making dinner at about 4:00, the pork loin was browned in a cocotte (as Paisano calls it, a Dutch oven in my terms) and then he added milk and garlic. I steamed some beans to be sautéed with garlic, pancetta, and anchovies. Then I prepped Potatoes Anna while Paisano made Tiramisu for dessert. The last step was duck rillettes for an appetizer. I knew about rillettes but had never made or eaten them.

Rillettes are some kind of meat (rabbit, pork, goose, or in this case, duck) slowly cooked in fat and then pounded into a paste. Rillettes are an old method of preserving meat, very much a peasant dish in origin. It's served spread on bread or crackers.

Duck Rillettes
Serves 6 as an hors d'oeuvres.
Recipe adapted from Charcuterie by Michael Ruhlman and Brian Polcyn.

8 oz duck confit at room temperature, about 2 legs
2 tbsp duck fat
1/4 c duck gelatin (from duck confit, a friend calls it "duck goo", it's the liquid that settles to the bottom when making confit)
plenty of ground black pepper
some salt, maybe

Place all ingredients in a stand mixer fitted with the paddle blade. Process at high speed until meat is completely shredded, scraping down sides of bowl occasionally. Taste and adjust seasonings. Serve on slices of baguette.

The entire meal was delicious, but the rillettes were a revelation. How could something so simple taste so good? Even when you factor in making the confit it's simple and easy. The champagne Paisano opened was perfect for cutting through the fat.

Note: Paisano is a fictious character and events presented may or may not be true.

Technorati: Food | recipe | kevin d weeks | seriously good | paisano | duck | duck rillettes | French | charcuterie

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Paisano: Boeuf en Daube

Paisano: Beef en Daube



My "Paisano" column on Gather.com is focused on peasant dishes from around the world, but you may wonder what constitutes a peasant dish. First and foremost, the ingredients are local and cheap. The food is grown on the farm, or the farm next door, and it's often food that either can't be sold, or isn't worth selling. Offal — heart, liver, pig ears — is a common ingredient as are the tough cuts of meat like shoulders, shanks, and ribs. The vegetables are also, often, of relatively poor quality: bruised onions, partially rotten potatoes, and bug-infested fruit are all made-do with. The style of cooking is designed to take these grade-B (or -C) ingredients and transform them into something not merely edible, but actually delicious.

One technique for improving the taste of borderline ingredients is marinating. A marinade can do a great job of hiding and even transforming the flavor of a cut of meat that's going off. Keep in mind, too, that in Europe prior to the 19th century (and even into the 20th century in some rural areas) meat was often intentionally allowed to age far beyond what we would consider edible, so by "off" I mean seriously off.

French daubes are a perfect example of a peasant dish that deserves a place of honor.

Another common technique was cooking low and slow. Stews and braises made tough cuts more tender and, properly seasoned, would hide and even transform the flavor of impending rot. Particularly if gently simmer for two to four hours. Note: When making a stew or braise the cooking liquid should be brought just to the boiling point and then reduced to a simmer. Boiling the meat will make it even tougher, the opposite of what you want.

These days we avoid ingredients that are beginning to rot and we often don't have access to local ingredients. But we still have tough cuts of meat that need transformation into something tender and delicious. So both marinades and braises still have a place in every cook's repertoire — and during the fall and winter such dishes are particularly welcome.

French daubes are a perfect example of a peasant dish that deserves a place of honor. These are stews or braises where the meat is typically marinated in wine with aromatics for 12 to 48 hours before being gently cooked in the marinade.

Boeuf en Daube (Beef Daube)
Serves 8.

3 lb beef chuck roast — cut into 1" cubes
Marinade:
2 carrots — finely chopped
1 lg onion — chopped
1 stalk celery — finely chopped
12 peppercorns
3 sprigs fresh thyme — bruised in your hands
2 sprigs fresh rosemary — bruised in your hands
3 cups robust red wine (I like an Australian Shiraz)
1 tbsp red wine vinegar
three strips orange rind
Daube:
1 tbsp olive oil
3 oz salt pork
1 c beef stock
1 medium onion — diced
1 bay leaf
salt and pepper to taste

Place meat and all marinade ingredients in a large zipper storage bag, and place int the refrigerator to marinate for 8 to 48 hours. Turn bag over and mix up a bit every four to six hours.

Pour marinade through a strainer into bowl and set aside. Discard everything except the meat. Pat the meat dry and season with salt and pepper.

Heat oven to 325F.

Cut salt pork into batons about 1/4" square in cross section and 3/4" - 1" long. Place a large dutch over medium heat and add the pork, cook until fat is rendered and pork is crisp. Remove with a slotted spoon and reserve. Increase heat to medium high. Brown beef in three or four batches (to avoid over-crowding) and set aside.

Reduce heat to medium low and cook onions stirring occasionally, until they begin to brown. Return beef and salt pork to pot and add reserved marinade, beef stock, bay leaf, and saly and pepper to taste. Increase heat to high, bring just to a boil, then immediately cover and place pot in the oven and cook for 2 - 2 1/2 hours. Note: the liquid should not quite cover the meat.

This is one of those dishes that is significantly better the day after cooking. I usually serve over mashed potatoes or soft polenta so I don't lose a drop of the sauce.

Technorati: Food | recipe | kevin d weeks | seriously good | beef daube | beef stew | french

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