menu sixteen
Terrine of Pork and Duck Liver
Duck Confit in the Oven with Crispy Panfried Potatoes
Celery, Radish, and Watercress Salad with Walnut Oil
menu seventeen
Dead-of-Winter Dinner from the Supermarket
Romaine Hearts with Shaved Parmigiano and Lemon Dressing
Panfried Steak with Steak Sauce
menu eighteen
Fragrant Lamb with Prunes and Almonds
Blood Oranges and Pomegranates with Orange Flower Water
menu nineteen
Buckwheat Galettes with Ham and Cheese
Mussels Marinière, Brittany-Style
menu twenty
Bollito Misto of Tongue and Brisket with Two Sauces
menu sixteen
Terrine of Pork and Duck Liver
Duck Confit in the Oven with Crispy Panfried Potatoes
Celery, Radish, and Watercress Salad with Walnut Oil
The 30-minute meal ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Slinging dinner on the table may feed us, but such hurried gestures often bypass the pleasure that real cooking offers. Spending a day in the kitchen can be amazingly rewarding—the reward is the mellowness of flavor and texture that results when certain dishes are given the luxury of improving over time.
A terrine, for example, needs a few days for the flavors to develop and is better even a week later. Duck confit is the ultimate make-ahead dish; a side benefit is that the flavor improves as you wait for the day when it becomes a crispy, delicious thing. Confits, pâtés, and sausages were devised as a way to preserve meat, but they become more delectable in the process. Likewise, everything about baking bread is better the next day. The dough always improves after a night in the refrigerator—the flavor as well as the texture. And pears poached in red wine are so much better after a night’s rest deepens their color and flavor.
Winter weather frequently keeps us indoors. Why not pass the time cooking up a little something for a future meal or two?
Terrine of Pork and Duck Liver
Rustic terrines and pâtés have been out of fashion for so long that I think the whole art form is due for re-examination.
This terrine is solid, the kind small purveyors bring to market in Paris. Most country-style terrines are rustic looking and meat-loaf-colored. For a rosier terrine, add a small amount of curing salt.
2 pounds boneless pork shoulder
½ pound duck or chicken livers
Salt
½ teaspoon black peppercorns
4 allspice berries
4 whole cloves
¼ teaspoon coriander seeds
4 garlic cloves
Pinch of cayenne
¼ cup dry white wine
1 tablespoon Cognac or other brandy
Scant ½ teaspoon curing salt (optional)
1 teaspoon finely chopped thyme
1 teaspoon finely chopped sage
Cornichons
Dijon mustard
Make sure to have the butcher chop the pork on the largest holes of his meat grinder. Or, you can hand-chop the meat, cutting it into ⅛-inch dice with a big sharp knife or a cleaver. Transfer the chopped meat to a large bowl.
Trim the livers. Put them in a blender or a food processor and puree. Pour over the chopped pork in the bowl. Add 2 teaspoons salt and mix well with your hands. Refrigerate the meat until it’s quite cold.
In a mortar or spice grinder, powder the peppercorns, allspice, cloves, and coriander seeds.
Pound the garlic in a mortar with a little salt. Stir in the powdered spices, cayenne, white wine, Cognac, curing salt, if using, thyme, and sage.
Knead the spice mixture into the meat in the bowl with your hands. Cover and refrigerate to let the flavors meld for at least a couple of hours, or as long as overnight. It will smell delicious already.
Make a small skinny patty of the meat mixture and fry it to taste the seasoning. It should be highly seasoned. This is your last chance to make adjustments!
When you’re ready to bake the terrine, preheat the oven to 375°F. Put the meat mixture in an 8-inch loaf pan or an earthenware baking dish. Cover the terrine tightly with foil.
Put the pan on a baking sheet, and then into the oven. Bake for 45 minutes, then remove the foil and bake for another 15 minutes, or until the terrine is nicely browned. The meat will look like it’s floating in liquid, and that’s a good thing. These juices will eventually surround the terrine with a tasty jelly. Check the temperature of the terrine with an instant-read thermometer. The center of the loaf should read 150°F. When it’s done, carefully remove the terrine from the oven, making sure not to spill the hot juices, and let it cool to room temperature.
Wrap the terrine well with plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least a day or two. For this kind of rustic páté, I don’t find it necessary to weight the terrine as is classically done.
To serve the terrine, run a knife around the edges and slice it in the pan, or invert it onto a cutting board and slice it at the table. Serve with the pickled onions, cornichons, and Dijon mustard.
{variation} another way to bake a terrine
Perhaps you don’t have a loaf pan or terrine. You can form the meat into a long sausage shape, about 3 inches in diameter by 12 inches. Wrap the meat in pastry (you can use the dough in the Apricot Tart recipe).
Put the sausage on a baking sheet and bake for about 45 minutes at 375°F. Store the sausage in the refrigerator for a day or two before slicing.
To serve, cut it into thick slices. Its looks are reminiscent of a fat French garlic sausage.
Pickled Onions
Make these easy pickles the day before you serve the terrine.
4 small white onions, cut into ¼-inch rings
2 cups water
1 tablespoon salt
2 teaspoons turmeric
3 whole cloves
2 allspice berries
½ cup white wine vinegar
1 thyme sprig
1 bay leaf
¼ cup sugar
Put the onions in a glass or stainless steel bowl. Bring the water to a boil in a small saucepan, then add all the other ingredients and simmer for 5 minutes.
Pour the boiling brine over the onions. Let cool to room temperature, then transfer the onions to a jar. (They will keep for a month, refrigerated.)
Duck Confit in the Oven with Crispy Panfried Potatoes
The process of making confit of anything (confit means preserve, as in confiture of fruits, which are jams) involves simmering seasoned meats in fat and then preserving them in their cooking fat. In the olden days, these meats were stored in a cool cellar, where the layer of fat essentially hermetically sealed the meat against bacteria.
A typical French farmhouse would put up duck or goose confit, various braised parts of the pig, and even sausages in this manner. There’s an oft-repeated story of a French farmwife embarrassed because she has nothing to serve an unexpected visitor but some duck confit—a treat any of us would be delighted by.
Nobody except that farm cook would have enough duck fat on hand to make this dish, so I’ve developed a method to get the same deep flavor of duck confit without requiring a gallon of duck fat to do it. Besides, since we store the results in a refrigerator these days, we do not need all that fat. I prefer Pekin, or Long Island, to Muscovy duck legs because I find that the meat is more tender.
Still and all, making this confit is a two-day process, because you must let the seasoned duck legs stand overnight, then cook the duck for a couple of hours the next day. And the legs should mellow in the fridge for a day or two after that before serving them. serves 4 to 6
8 duck legs, preferably Pekin or Long Island
Salt and pepper
4 garlic cloves, roughly chopped
1 tablespoon fresh thyme, roughly chopped, or crumbled dried thyme
1 cup rendered duck fat
Trim the duck legs of excess skin and fat, reserving the trimmings for rendering, and lay them out on a baking sheet. Season well with salt and pepper on both sides. Sprinkle the chopped garlic and thyme over the legs and massage into the meat. Put the duck legs in a covered container and refrigerate overnight.
The next day, bring the duck legs to room temperature. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Rinse the garlic and thyme from the duck legs with cool water and pat them dry.
Heat the rendered duck fat in a small pan. Lay the duck legs in one layer in a deep baking dish, skin side down. Pour the duck fat over the legs and add 2 cups of water. Cover the pan tightly with foil and bake for 1½ hours, or until the meat is quite tender at the bone when probed with the tip of a paring knife. The meat should not have browned at all; you’ll brown it just before serving. Carefully remove the pan from the oven and let cool.
Transfer the cooled duck legs to a covered container, and pour the strained cooking liquid over them. Put in the refrigerator to mellow for a day or two.
To cook the duck legs, bring them to room temperature and preheat the oven to 375°F. Leaving a bit of fat clinging to each leg, carefully scrape most of the fat off and reserve it for frying the potatoes (save any tasty duck jelly separately from the fat). Put the duck legs skin side up in one layer in a low roasting pan, and put the pan in the oven.
Roast the legs for about 30 minutes, basting occasionally, until the skin is crisp and brown. Remove the duck from the oven, blot the legs with paper towels, and put them on a platter with a pile of the panfried potatoes.
a rendering lesson
Rendering is simply the process of extracting fat through slow simmering. Duck fat is a wonderful, tasty fat to cook in, still used extensively in the southwest of France, the duck capital of the world. Although you can buy duck fat already rendered, it’s costly. But it is not hard to make and is satisfying to do.
The trimmings from the 8 legs in the duck confit recipe will yield about a cup of rendered fat. Put the saved trimmings in a small pan, add a cup of water, and simmer gently for 30 to 40 minutes. Strain the liquid and cool it, then store the duck fat in a glass jar in the refrigerator. Note: Rendered duck fat keeps for months. There will be a small amount of flavorful jelly at the bottom of the jar, which you’ll want to save for sauces or soups. The rest of the jar contains the delicious fat you’ll use to finish cooking the duck legs and make the potatoes crispy.
Crispy Panfried Potatoes
Use any kind of baking potato here. Common russets are fine, but I prefer large yellow-fleshed potatoes like Yukon Gold or Bintje. Just don’t use waxy boiling potatoes, because they won’t get crisp. If you don’t have duck fat, use olive oil, clarified butter, or good-quality lard. Duck fat makes the tastiest crispy potatoes.
2 to 3 pounds baking potatoes, peeled and cut into 1-inch cubes
Duck fat for frying (see A Rendering Lesson)
2 garlic cloves, mashed to a paste with a little salt
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
Salt and pepper
Boil the potatoes in a large pot of salted water for 10 minutes, or until cooked through but still firm. Drain the potatoes, spread them on a baking sheet, and allow them to cool to room temperature. (You can do this well ahead of time, then brown the potatoes while the duck is cooking.)
Heat a large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat and add ½ inch of duck fat. When the fat is hot, carefully add the potatoes to the pan in one layer. Try to resist touching them until they begin to brown and loosen from the pan. Gently turn them with a slotted spoon or spatula and let them cook for another 10 minutes, or until they’re nicely browned on all sides.
Lift the potatoes from the fat and blot them on paper towels. Put the potatoes in a wide mixing bowl, add the garlic and parsley, season well with salt and pepper, and toss well. Serve on the same platter with duck confit or in a warmed serving vessel.
Celery, Radish, and Watercress Salad with Walnut Oil
In the winter, you crave bright, fresh greens alongside all these long slow-cooked dishes to add a little zip to the meal.
2 small bunches watercress
1 small shallot, finely diced
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
Salt and pepper
5 to 6 tablespoons walnut oil
1 celery heart, thinly sliced
8 radishes, slivered
Wash the watercress well. This is easier to do if you keep the bunches intact. Swish each one in a large bowl of water, then drain it, still in a bunch, upside down in a colander. Shake off the excess water. Carefully cut the leafy tops away from the stems and roll them in a kitchen towel. Refrigerate until ready to serve.
To make the vinaigrette, put the shallot in a small bowl and add the vinegars, with a pinch of salt. Grind in a little pepper, whisk in the walnut oil, taste, and correct the seasonings.
To serve, put the celery and radishes in a salad bowl. Season with salt and pepper, then add the vinaigrette and toss. Add the watercress sprigs, toss lightly, and serve immediately.
Making bread is squarely in the spirit of good things well worth the wait. There is such a craze these days for all kinds of shortcuts like bread machines, or for making fast-rising, instant loaves. Obviously, I think they miss the whole point of making bread. I like my hands in the dough. I like waiting for the dough to rise, knowing it needs time to mature and that a slow, cool rise is the best way to get good bread.
For this loaf, you stir up a starter and let it stand for a while. Then you mix the dough and let it rest overnight in the refrigerator. The next day, you knead the dough, form the loaf, and allow it to rise slowly in a floured basket for several hours.
After it rises, you invert the loaf onto a baking sheet and shove it into a hot oven: the baking sheet and the heat of the oven ensure a beautiful crust. Once it’s baked, try to resist nibbling until the loaf has cooled completely. In fact, if you can wait, a loaf like this is even better the following day. This bread is not like a baguette that’s better within a few hours of baking; it is a keeping loaf, and it will provide several days of sandwiches and toast.
1 tablespoon active dry yeast
2 cups lukewarm water
2½ cups unbleached bread flour
½ cup whole wheat flour
½ cup semolina, plus extra for dusting
2 teaspoons salt
Put the yeast and water in a large mixing bowl. Stir in 1 cup of the bread flour to make a thick batter. The mixture should begin to bubble almost immediately, signifying that the yeast is doing its job (basically, we just fed the yeast a little snack). Leave the mixture at room temperature for about an hour, until it’s quite frothy and has risen in the bowl.
Add the remaining 1½ cups white flour, the whole wheat flour, semolina, and salt to the starter and stir well. When the dough is gathered but still shaggy, turn it out onto a lightly floured counter and knead it for just a couple of minutes, dusting it lightly with flour if necessary; the dough should remain a little sticky.
Put the dough in a mixing bowl, cover with plastic wrap, and refrigerate overnight. The dough will rise a bit in the bowl.
The next day, remove the dough from the bowl and punch it down to get the air out. Knead the dough again for a few minutes, and form it into a smooth ball.
Select a basket or bowl large enough to contain the dough when it doubles in size: if you happen to have a French-linen-lined dough-rising basket, by all means use that; otherwise, line a low wide bowl with a linen napkin and dust it heavily with white flour before you add the dough. Set the dough ball into the basket or bowl, dust the top with semolina, and cover loosely with plastic wrap. Let the dough rise at cool room temperature for 2 to 3 hours, or until doubled in size. The longer and cooler the rise, the better the texture of the bread will be.
Preheat the oven to 450°F—make sure it’s thoroughly preheated, so you’ll be putting the bread into a very hot oven. Sprinkle a baking sheet with semolina. Ease the dough onto the baking sheet by carefully inverting the basket or bowl over the sheet; remove the basket (or napkin). The top of the dough will have a light coating of flour. Sprinkle on a bit more.
With a sharp, thin knife or razor blade, quickly slash a large X in the top of the dough, about ½ inch deep. Immediately put the pan in the oven. Bake for 15 minutes. The loaf will puff dramatically and the crust will have begun to form.
Turn down the oven to 400°F and bake for 45 minutes more, or until the bread is dark and crusty. Remove the bread from the oven and put it on a cooling rack. As the bread cools, you’ll hear it making crackling sounds. That is the sound of an honest loaf.
baking bread
Making a loaf of bread can be seen as the quintessential act of cooking. To gather seeds, crush them, mix them with water to form a cake, and bake the cake on a hot stone—this is the work of man and no other. I began cooking in earnest after I taught myself to bake a loaf of bread from a recipe in The New York Times. I was seventeen. The recipe was for Cuban bread, a crusty white loaf: yeast, water, flour, salt, maybe a pinch of sugar. Cornmeal on the baking sheet, and a shallow pan of water in the bottom of the oven for steam. The kneaded loaf was allowed to rise, then slashed and baked. I was mesmerized by the aroma.
I began baking more complex loaves (this was innocence, as I know now the best loaves are the plainest). I fell for hand-ground wheat berries to make a coarse whole wheat bread; I combined whole wheat pastry flour, sunflower seeds, coconut, and walnuts for the then-popular hippie loaf. I mastered challah and rye bread. And after that it was just a short jump to pies, and pizzas, and focaccia. I even worked for a time as a professional baker, learning to make croissants, puff pastry, brioche, and the like, but I still prefer more rustic breads.
Although today there are more and more good bakeries, it’s nonetheless extremely satisfying to bake a loaf of bread.
Poached pears in red wine is a classic French dessert. It’s the overnight bath that stains the pears a deep, rich red and infuses them with flavor. When this dessert is overspiced, it tastes like bad mulled wine. I prefer it on the subtle side.
8 slightly underripe small Comice or Anjou pears
1 (750-ml) bottle medium-bodied red wine, such as Côtes du Rhone
1½ cups sugar
1 bay leaf
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
2 whole cloves
A wide strip each of lemon and orange peel
Peel the pears top to bottom with a sharp vegetable peeler, leaving them whole, with stems attached and the core intact.
Put the pears in a large wide nonreactive pot (enameled or stainless steel) in one layer. Stir the wine and sugar together in a bowl to dissolve the sugar, pour over the pears, and add the aromatics. Cover and bring to a boil, then reduce the heat to a gentle simmer. Poach the pears for about 30 minutes, or until a skewer inserted encounters no resistance. Remove from the heat and let cool, in the poaching liquid, overnight.
The next day, with a slotted spoon, transfer the pears to a platter. Heat the poaching liquid over high and boil down until it is reduced by half. Strain this syrup into a bowl and let cool.
Use a paring knife to cut a small slice off the bottom of each pear, allowing them to stand up straight. Stand the pears in a deep rectangular glass or plastic container large enough to contain them in one layer.
Pour the cooled syrup over the pears. Refrigerate for up to several days. Serve chilled, putting each pear in a soup plate and spooning over a little syrup.
menu seventeen
Dead-of-Winter Dinner from the Supermarket
Romaine Hearts with Shaved Parmigiano and Lemon Dressing
Panfried Steak with Steak Sauce
It is true, the supermarket is not the first place I head when I set out to go food shopping. I was raised on supermarket food and a trip there as a child always seemed fun, but as I grew older, I discovered so many more interesting places to find good ingredients. Farmers’ markets and farm stands, of course, but I also found I was happier in a Latino market or wandering through Chinatown. Still, for many people, the supermarket is the only choice.
It has to be said that what is available in supermarkets today is a heck of a lot better than what you could find even ten years ago. But a supermarket crawl in January in New York City left me with strong impressions: no matter the progress, the primary concern of these places is not the selling of good food. Theirs is the well-stocked shelf laden with the packaged and the processed—with baking mixes and instant soups and breakfast cereals and snack foods. A savvy shopper can, and should, try not to be seduced by the processed stuff, and instead seek out only what seems like real food.
There were some encouraging signs, however. I noted a number of supermarkets where a good butcher or fish counter can be found (although I still don’t know many with good prepared deli food, or with a bakery that produces much more than bread that smells good). I was also pleased with the proliferation of naturally raised beef; you pay a bit more, but you get your money’s worth in flavor and healthy planetness. I was reminded that fresh turkey and fresh turkey parts are widely available. I was encouraged by the increased presence of better chickens and healthier eggs. In produce-land, I still have a strong antipathy for premixed lettuce in cellophane bags. Carefully packaged arugula, though, seems to be surviving the trip, and hearts of organic romaine lettuce abound, for an easy and satisfying salad.
As I wandered the aisles, the big shock was discovering row upon row of bottled sauces and dressings. Perusing the ingredients lists with a magnifying glass, I discovered that what lurked in the fine print was most often one dread ingredient: high-fructose corn syrup. And a lot of it. I always knew that there were ready-made salad dressings for people who are daunted by the idea of mixing a little oil and vinegar, but I was astounded by the array (and the cost!) of cooking sauces, barbecue sauces, steak sauces, glazes, and marinades—many of which had a famous person’s picture on the label. Wonder what Ernest Hemingway would think about his namesake marinades in the flavors of Key West, Kenya, and Idaho Mesquite. The companies that make all these prepared sauces prey on our fear of cooking, and on the notion that we somehow inherently believe we do not have time to cook.
This mad array of expensive, unhealthy, and inauthentic bottles made me want to do two things: to work out an easy steak sauce for the common man, and to scout the aisles for more supermarket food that I could happily cook.
I’m usually desperate for salad in winter, and clearly there’s not much lettuce growing anywhere nearby. But here you must bend the rules for seasonal eating, because good salad is both a luxury and a necessity. The one thing you can count on in the supermarket is the ubiquity of organic romaine hearts, even though they’re packaged like rolls of paper towels, and sometimes you have to reach to the back of the shelf for the most recently shipped. I usually buy more than I need so that I can pare back a few of the outer leaves of each head to reveal the tender, pale hearts within. Those are the leaves to use.
This is a flavor combination I always crave: romaine, lemon, and Parmigiano. I never tire of this salad. It’s easy, versatile, and, though it can be made at any time of the year, is especially welcome in the dead of winter.
4 romaine hearts
3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
1 garlic clove, smashed to a paste with a little salt
¼ cup olive oil
Salt and pepper
A chunk of Parmigiano for shaving
First prepare the romaine hearts: Cut off the bottoms, and discard a few of the outer leaves of each head. Gently separate the inner leaves and refresh in a deep basin of cold water for just a minute. Drain well, wrap in kitchen towels, and refrigerate. The whole idea is that they should look fresh and crisp.
Now make the dressing: In a small bowl, stir together the lemon juice, mustard, and garlic. Whisk in the olive oil and season well with salt and pepper. Taste and correct the seasoning if necessary; the dressing should be rather tart.
Put the leaves in a large salad bowl. Sprinkle lightly with salt, pour the dressing over the lettuce, and gently coat the leaves, tossing with your hands. With a vegetable peeler, shave large curls of Parmigiano over the salad.
{variation} with blue cheese
Replace the Parmigiano with rough shards of Roquefort or other blue cheese. Although supermarkets carry precrumbled blue cheeses, why pay extra for something inferior? For best results, crumble your own!
{variation} with anchovy dressing
Rinse 3 anchovy fillets in a bowl of warm water, then soak in ¼ cup milk for 15 minutes to mellow. Remove the anchovies from the milk and blot on paper towels. Mash 2 garlic cloves with the anchovies in a mortar. Add a little salt to help create a paste. Add a little finely chopped lemon zest, the juice of half a lemon, and a splash of champagne vinegar. Stir in 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard and, gradually, ⅓ cup olive oil, until you have a thickish vinaigrette. Check the seasoning, and correct with lemon juice, salt, and/or freshly ground black pepper.
Panfried Steak with Steak Sauce
Why go out for a steak dinner with all the trimmings? All you need is a good piece of meat. Obviously, the better the supermarket, the better the meat department is likely to be, but you can find a good butcher in the most surprising places. I tend to trust those markets where they’re cutting the meat before my eyes. If you can find a butcher, ask him to cut you some nice steaks for panfrying. A well-marbled rib eye makes a beautiful if somewhat pricey steak, but so do cheaper cuts like flatiron or hangar steak.
Whichever, I always prefer restrained portions: 5 or 6 ounces per steak is plenty. Buy one steak for each person.
4 to 6 steaks, about 1 inch thick
Salt and pepper
4 garlic cloves, thickly sliced
Olive oil
½ cup Brown Turkey Stock or beef broth
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons chopped parsley
Season the steaks generously on both sides with salt and coarsely ground pepper. Scatter the garlic over the steaks, then drizzle over a little olive oil and rub it into the steaks. Set aside at cool room temperature for an hour or so. (Or cover and refrigerate, and return to room temperature in a few hours.)
You’ll need two skillets, preferably cast-iron, to cook the steaks. Heat the pans until they’re really hot. Remove the garlic slices from the steaks and discard. When the pans are good and hot, lay 3 steaks in each pan and let them sizzle. Do not touch them, do not move them. After 3 minutes, inspect the cooked side to see if it’s beautifully seared and browned, and when it is, turn each steak over. Cook on the second side just until the juices appear on the surface, about 2 minutes more. Remove the steaks to a warm platter. Leave the pans on the stove, but turn off the heat.
To quickly make the steak sauce, pour ¼ cup stock into each pan, stirring with a wooden spoon to deglaze. Pour all of the deglazed juices into one of the pans, turn up the heat to high, and quickly cook down the sauce to thicken slightly, then stir in the butter and parsley. Turn off the heat, swirl the pan to mix well, and spoon the sauce over the steaks.
{variation} panfried steak with herb butter
Instead of a sauce, make a simple herb butter to smear on the steaks: Mix 2 tablespoons finely chopped parsley into 4 tablespoons softened butter and add a small garlic clove, pounded to a paste with a little salt. Spread a teaspoon or so over each finished steak on the platter. You could, of course, use a small shallot, finely diced, instead of the garlic, or another herb, such as tarragon, chives, or rosemary.
Brown Turkey Stock
Turkey’s a bird we don’t think about much except for the holidays, but supermarkets seem to consider it a staple all year round. Usually I’m not much of a fan of ground turkey (I’d rather have a real burger)—the other parts interest me. The wings and the necks make a beautiful brown stock, the legs can be braised like osso buco, and legs plus wings will make a dinde au vin, the turkey version of coq au vin (it’s easier to find a turkey than a rooster these days). The breasts can be sliced for turkey scaloppine or roasted (see Roasted and Braised Turkey with Gravy).
Fresh turkey carcasses, wings, and bony bits can substitute for chicken in making a wonderful broth. You can use this brown stock for a number of things: to make a simple pan sauce (as in the preceding recipe) for steaks or chops, or to enrich soups or braises. makes 1 quart stock
1 pound turkey wings and necks
1 small onion, roughly chopped
1 small carrot, roughly chopped
½ cup dry red wine
6 cups water
Preheat the oven to 400°F. Put all the ingredients except the water in a roasting pan and roast for 30 to 40 minutes, until everything is well and nicely browned. Stir occasionally.
Transfer the contents of the pan to a large saucepan on the stove and add the water. Rinse the roasting pan with a little water to capture any brown bits, and add them to the saucepan. Bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Skim off any rising foam and simmer very gently for 45 minutes to an hour. Strain and refrigerate the stock. The stock should be intensely brown and slightly jelled when cold. It will keep for up to 1 week in the refrigerator, or you can freeze it.
A good potato gratin is probably the one thing you can serve at any dinner table that everybody will love. Of all the versions, I prefer this traditional French-style gratin, made simply with potatoes, cream, and butter.
3 pounds baking potatoes (use medium russet, Bintje, or German Butterball)
Salt and pepper
4 tablespoons butter, plus a little more for the baking dish
2½ cups organic heavy cream, or as needed
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Peel the potatoes and put them in a bowl of cold water. Smear a baking dish thickly with butter. My favorite gratin dish is a circular pan 14 inches in diameter and 2 inches deep. If you don’t have a large dish, make 2 smaller gratins. Just make sure the dish is not too deep.
To assemble the gratin, place a cutting board on the counter between the bowl of potatoes and the baking dish. Using a mandoline, if you have one, slice a few potatoes at a time, as thin as possible. Quickly lay the potato slices in the bottom of the pan, overlapping them to make one layer. Sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper. Slice a few more potatoes and make another layer. Continue in this fashion, seasoning each layer, until all the potatoes are used.
Pour the cream over the potatoes and tilt the pan to distribute it well. With your hands, push down on the top layer to even out the pile. The cream should just barely cover the potatoes. Add a little more if necessary. Dot the surface with the butter, then cover the dish tightly with foil and put it in the oven. Bake for 30 minutes.
Remove the foil and return the pan to the oven for another 30 minutes or so to brown the top of the gratin. Let the gratin rest for 10 minutes before serving. (The gratin can also be cooled and left at room temperature for several hours, and reheated in a moderate oven.)
{gratin variations}
Obviously, there are many other delicious ways to make a gratin. For a good cheesy version, sprinkle an assertive cheese, such as Swiss Gruyère or Raclette, or even Fontina, between each layer of potatoes. You’ll need about 2 cups grated cheese.
There’s a Swedish version of the dish called Jansson’s Temptation, which calls for anchovies and onions and is excellent for breakfast or lunch. To make a good approximation of Jansson’s, mix 1 large onion, sliced thin, with about 12 anchovy fillets, rinsed and roughly chopped, and divide the mixture among the layers. Bake as for the classic gratin.
What a luxury to have a ripe pineapple in the middle of winter—and supermarkets often do. The smaller pineapples tend to be the sweetest. A sour, stringy pineapple is a disaster, but a sweet ripe fruit can be a revelation.
Cutting a pineapple is almost like carving a pumpkin. There’s a real art to it. Using a serrated knife, cut off the top and bottom of the fruit, then peel away the skin along the curves. Now you must remove the “eyes” that run around the exterior in a spiral. To do this, with a sharp paring knife, cut a grooved channel in the surface, following the eyes. Work around the pineapple in a circular spiral fashion.
Now you can slice the fruit into rounds. Or slice the pineapple into quarters, remove the core, and slice into wedges to serve cool and fresh. Still, there’s also something nice about a broiled pineapple. Preheat the broiler. Cut the peeled pineapple into quarters, remove the core, and cut into ½-inch slices. Spread the slices in one layer in a ceramic or glass baking dish, sprinkle lightly with brown sugar, and bake for about 10 minutes, until the pineapple begins to brown a bit. Remove the pineapple from the oven. Heat ¼ cup of rum in a small saucepan and pour the rum over the pineapple slices. Strike a match, carefully light the rum, and flame the fruit. When the flame subsides, serve the pineapple warm from the dish, or at room temperature.
menu eighteen
Fragrant Lamb with Prunes and Almonds
Blood Oranges and Pomegranates with Orange Flower Water
Over time, I’ve learned that there are many kinds of cooks. There are people who understand how to roast and those who understand how to grill. There are cooks who love to turn up the heat and sauté in a hot pan and those who are masters at frying. There are the cooks who really, really know how to stew and braise and boil. And while all good cooks have parts of some of these cooks in them, it’s well worth cultivating the part of you that yearns to stew.
If I had my way, I would launch a Society for the Protection of Long-Cooked Stews. Its members would braise regularly, cultivating their skill until they feel it innately, instead of being culinary gadflies, forever distracted by the newest recipe or the trendiest ingredient and never perfecting anything well enough to make it theirs. I can’t emphasize enough how important the recurring stew theme can be in your kitchen. The satisfying process of nursing a winter braise is a discipline whose one demand is that you slow down and learn to recognize what you’re looking for. Every time you make it, you’ll discover more about it.
The whole project may take a few days, and that’s part of the point. A braise always tastes better the day after it’s made. It used to be that people went to the butcher and knew what to look for in braising meat. Besides lamb shanks—which are wonderful to slow-cook—you could get meaty neck bones, or a small shoulder of lamb on the bone, or several thick-cut shoulder chops. Beef short ribs or bone-in beef chuck makes wonderful stews, as do meaty beef shanks.
Generally speaking, the forward parts of the animal are best for braising; the rear parts are better for grilling and roasting.
I have always found the Moroccan tagine to be a cozy port in a stormy world. The difference between a tagine and the European meat ragout is the range of ingredients, the depth of color. Tagines offer a kind of opulence. I think of them as polychromatic. Typically it’s a knowing mix of sweet and savory—not just of spice, but of fruit too, and buttery onions as fragrant as a Moroccan spice shop.
A savory egg dish is a common first course in Morocco and Tunisia. To make these simple baked eggs, you must first bake the filo pastry cups. You can do this several hours ahead.
6 sheets filo dough
8 tablespoons (1 stick) butter, melted
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 large onion, sliced
Salt and pepper
1 garlic clove, smashed to a paste with a little salt
½ teaspoon cayenne or hot red chile powder
½ teaspoon cumin seeds, toasted and ground
6 large organic eggs
Lemon wedges
Coriander sprigs for garnish
Harissa Oil (optional)
Preheat the oven to 375°. To make the pastries, lay a 12-inch square sheet of filo flat on the counter. Paint it generously with melted butter and fold it in half. Paint again with butter and fold once more. Invert a 5½-inch bowl over the folded sheet and with a paring knife carefully cut a circle. Gently press the circle of filo into a muffin tin. Repeat with the remaining pastry sheets until you have six little filo cups. Bake for 5 minutes, until just barely golden. Cool. Leave the oven on.
Heat the olive oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Add the onion, season with salt and pepper, and let it brown slightly, then turn down the heat. Cook, stirring occasionally, until the onion is soft, about 5 minutes. Add the garlic, cayenne, and cumin and cook for a minute longer, then transfer the onion mixture to a bowl to cool. Taste and adjust the seasoning: it should be a little kicky.
Spoon a little of the onion filling into each pastry cup. Break an egg into each cup and season with salt and pepper.
Bake for 10 to 15 minutes, until the eggs are set but the yolks are still runny. Serve warm on a platter with lemon wedges, garnished with sprigs of coriander. If you’d like a little extra spice, drizzle with Harissa Oil.
Harissa Oil
Delicious with the Savory Baked Eggs in Filo, harissa oil can be drizzled over any number of things—olives, vegetables, toasted bread, or chicken stew. makes about 1 cup
1 tablespoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon coriander seeds
1 teaspoon caraway seeds
1 teaspoon fennel seeds
3 tablespoons sweet paprika or mild ground red chile
1 teaspoon cayenne or other powdered hot red chile
1 to 2 garlic cloves, smashed to a paste with a little salt
1 teaspoon salt
1 cup olive oil
A few drops of red wine vinegar
Toast all the seeds in a dry pan over medium heat until they are fragrant. Grind the toasted seeds in a mortar or spice mill, then put them in a bowl.
Add the paprika, cayenne, garlic, and salt. Stir in the olive oil and vinegar. The harissa oil will keep in the fridge for a week or two.
Fragrant Lamb with Prunes and Almonds
It’s too bad lamb shanks have become so chic they’re now expensive. You could easily make this tagine with boneless lamb shoulder cut into half-pound chunks. It would be just as delicious and less pricey. serves 6
for the tagine
6 pounds lamb shanks or 4 pounds boneless lamb shoulder, trimmed of fat
Salt and pepper
2 tablespoons butter
2 medium onions, thickly sliced
Pinch of saffron threads
6 garlic cloves, chopped
One 2-inch chunk ginger, peeled and slivered
1 small cinnamon stick
1 teaspoon coriander seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1 tablespoon powdered ginger
2 teaspoons cayenne
1 cup golden raisins
2 cups pitted prunes
4 cups chicken broth or water
1 cup tomato puree
for the garnish
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup blanched whole almonds
Large pinch of salt
Small pinch of sugar
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Season the lamb generously with salt and pepper, and set aside.
Melt the butter in a large skillet. Add the onions, sprinkle with a little salt, and crumble the saffron over them. Stew the onions gently for about 5 minutes, or until slightly softened. Remove from the heat and stir in the garlic, fresh ginger, cinnamon stick, coriander and cumin seeds, powdered ginger, and cayenne. Add the raisins and half the prunes.
Put the lamb in a Dutch oven or deep-sided baking dish and spread the onion mixture over the meat. Add the broth or water and the tomato puree, and cover the pot with foil and a tight-fitting lid. Bake for about 2 hours, or until the meat is meltingly tender.
Remove the foil and lid, add the second cup of prunes, and submerge them in the liquid. Raise the heat to 400°F and return the lamb to the oven, uncovered, for about 15 minutes to let the meat brown a bit. Remove the pot from the oven and let it rest for 10 minutes or so.
Skim off any fat from the surface of the tagine. If the sauce seems thin, pour into a saucepan and reduce. The tagine is ready to serve, but it will also reheat perfectly, so you can make it today to serve tomorrow. (The sauce will mature beautifully in the refrigerator overnight.)
Just before you’re ready to serve the tagine, fry the almonds for garnish: Heat the butter in a small skillet over medium heat and fry the almonds gently, stirring occasionally. When the almonds are golden, drain them on paper towels and sprinkle them with the salt and sugar.
To serve, transfer the stew to a large platter and scatter the fried almonds over the lamb.
{variation} a rabbit tagine
You can make the stew exactly the same way with a couple of small rabbits or one large chicken, cut up. Just plan on a shorter cooking time, and check the meat at 1½ hours.
The blood orange is the brilliant red-fleshed fruit of the Mediterranean. Originally imported from Morocco, Tunisia, Spain, and southern Italy, blood oranges are increasingly cultivated in the United States. To me, the fruit has an almost tropical taste, which is so welcome in winter and especially refreshing after the lamb tagine. The oranges are not only beautiful to look at, but also satisfying to eat.
The pomegranate is so elegant you could imagine it growing on velvet-covered branches. In truth, the fruits grow on scruffy bushes, a fact that somehow escaped me until I saw them for myself in Morocco, poking out of the brush like so many hedge apples. For dessert one night, I was served a simple bowl of glistening ruby pomegranate seeds. It was a totally sensuous gesture. A spoonful of those ripe seeds was like nectar.
1 large pomegranate
6 blood oranges
Orange flower water
A little sugar if necessary
Cut the pomegranate into quarters and invert each quarter over a large bowl to force out the seeds.
Peel the blood oranges with a serrated knife. Working over the bowl, cut between the membranes to section each orange, letting the segments drop into the bowl. Before discarding the membranes, give them a squeeze over the bowl to capture every bit of juice.
Mix the oranges, juice, and pomegranate seeds together, and add a splash of orange flower water. Taste, and if the juice is too tart, add a little sugar. Chill for at least an hour.
Serve in small bowls.
menu nineteen
Buckwheat Galettes with Ham and Cheese
Mussels Marinière, Brittany-Style
It was the great canicule, a heat wave so severe that the sidewalks in Paris were still steaming at midnight. We just had to get some fresh air. So Randal and I and the two dogs, Arturo and Ajax, hightailed it out of town in a rented air-conditioned car. First, we headed south, only to discover that everyone else had, too. Then we made a big loop and headed northwest to the farthest reaches of Brittany’s Atlantic coast, and to the north coast of Normandy—the land of apples, butter, buckwheat, and mussels.
We found ourselves on a small island just off the mainland of Brittany, the Ile de Bréhat, known for its ancient buckwheat mill. Situated right on the sea, the mill was ingeniously calibrated to work with the tides; as the tides moved, so did the mill. The Moulin de Birlot had been converted into a museum and was run by one old guy who wanted to preserve the history of the place. He was only too happy to show us how buckwheat was ground. Although the French call it blé noir, and some tourist menus translate it incorrectly as black wheat, buckwheat is a grain that comes from a leafy plant, and is not at all a grass like wheat.
So it was that summer in Brittany, on that island where no cars were allowed and you had to take a ten-minute ferry from the mainland, that I became truly enamored of the buckwheat galette.
A galette is a large, savory crêpe more common there than pizza, filled with mushrooms, spinach, tomatoes, or anything at all, really. The best, to me, is the ham-and-cheese-filled galette, with an egg in the middle. The nomenclature is a bit confusing. Galettes are made with buckwheat flour and are almost always savory, while crêpes are usually sweet and always made with white flour. There’s something so wonderfully intense about the nutty, roasty flavor of buckwheat, it’s a shame not to use it more (buckwheat is also the stuff of the acclaimed Japanese soba noodles). In a restaurant, galettes are baked on a big, round griddle and then the edges are folded in so that the circle makes a large square. Served as a main course, a galette owns the plate. At home I sometimes make smaller ones or cut them into wedges to eat with salad. Because buckwheat flour has no gluten, I add some white flour to the batter, but I try to keep it as buckwheaty as possible.
Mussels in most of France are a bit like fast food. It’s awful to get them in a tourist restaurant, where they are drowned in cheap wine, too much garlic, and bad tomato sauce, and inevitably called “Provençal” on the menu. Worse are moules frites, so served because french fries sell. But today even French french fries are all frozen anyway—nobody makes their own frites anymore. (And I’d rather eat good mussels with good bread than with fries.)
Up in mussel country, though, it’s a completely different story. In the little port of Barfleur, a very old fishing village in Normandy, a fresh mussel is incredible. Tiny bouchot mussels, born in the waters of that northwestern coast, are farmed on wooden posts (bouchots) and harvested at low tide. There’s not a fresher dish of mussels to be had—these mussels have never traveled. A large pot of steamed mussels can be found in any little restaurant in Barfleur (indeed, in most coastal towns of the area), accompanied by a bottle of local cider, at a very reasonable price. Some places offer, for variety’s sake, curried mussels, or mussels with cream and Calvados, but for mussels this fresh, sweet, and briny, the best preparation is à la marinière, with just a splash of white wine and a few aromatics.
Mussel season in France is from July to November, due to several factors including water temperature and type of mussel, so the lucky French get to enjoy them during the summer holidays as well as in rainy weather. In the United States the season for most mussels is late fall to early spring, so we think of mussels as cold-weather fare. Nearly all mussels that come to market today are farmed, a practice that, unlike many other aquaculture ventures, is environmentally sound. For food, the mussels simply filter seawater for the plankton and other nutrients they thrive on. The industry is well managed and highly regulated. Prince Edward Island in Canada supplies a majority of the mussels in America. Mussels are farmed in parts of New England too, and on the West Coast in Washington and California. It’s fun to collect wild mussels, but you need to be certain you’re taking them from approved waters. Check ahead with your local department of fish and wildlife.
Try to buy your mussels the day they arrive at the fish market and eat them immediately. The fresher they are, the better they are.
Buckwheat galettes are great for a light lunch or, as in this menu, a first course served with Mâche Salad.
1 cup buckwheat flour
½ cup all-purpose flour
2 eggs
2½ cups whole milk
½ teaspoon salt
¼ cup roasted buckwheat groats (kasha), finely ground in a coffee grinder
About 2 tablespoons butter, melted
6 slices good-quality cooked ham
2 cups grated Comté or Gruyère
Whisk together the flours, eggs, milk, salt, and groats in a mixing bowl until well combined. Put the batter in the refrigerator for at least 2 hours; overnight is best.
Heat a crêpe pan or a well-seasoned cast-iron pan, about 8 inches in diameter, over medium-high heat. With a piece of paper towel, rub a little butter in the pan, then quickly ladle in about ⅛ cup batter. Swirl the pan to spread the batter. Let the galette brown on one side, then flip it over with a spatula. (When you become an expert, you can just grab the edge of the galette with your fingertips to turn it.) Remove the galette from the pan and set it aside while you continue to make the rest of the galettes.
To fill the galettes, lay each one top side down, place a slice of ham on top and sprinkle with a generous pinch of grated cheese, and fold over to make a half-moon. Put the filled galettes in one layer on a baking sheet.
Just before serving, preheat the oven to 400°F. Drizzle the galettes with a little melted butter. Pop them into the oven until they are crisp and the cheese is melted. Serve immediately, with the salad.
Mâche is as common in Europe as butter lettuce is here, though it’s becoming more available in this country. In Switzerland, they make a wonderful mâche salad with a little bit of chopped egg, and that’s the inspiration for this one. If you have difficulty finding mâche, use a combination of curly endive and baby spinach.
1 pound mâche rosettes
1 small shallot, finely diced
1 tablespoon sherry vinegar
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
Salt and pepper
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon walnut oil
2 eggs, hard-cooked
It’s tricky to wash mâche; sand and grit love to hide in all the whorled leaves, and you need to pay special attention to the rosettes. Pick over the whole batch with a paring knife and trim the root ends carefully, leaving the rosettes intact. Trim off any yellow leaves. Swish the rosettes in a large basin of cold water, and use your fingers to dislodge any sand and grit. Repeat several times, until the mâche is clean. Lift the mâche into a colander and drain well, then wrap in a kitchen towel and refrigerate until ready to use.
To make the vinaigrette, put the shallot in a small bowl and add the vinegars and salt and pepper. Let sit for 5 minutes, then whisk in the mustard, olive oil, and walnut oil. (The dressing can be made several hours in advance.)
When you’re ready to dress the salad, put the greens in a big salad bowl. Sprinkle lightly with salt, pour the vinaigrette over the greens, and toss gently to coat all the leaves. Roughly chop the eggs and scatter them over the top.
Despite the fact that most mussel places offer moules seven ways, including curried mussels and mussels with cream and Calvados, for me the best way is still the plainest way: simply steamed with white wine with just a few aromatics to enhance the briny broth. There’s nothing easier or more satisfying for a casual dinner than to just bring the whole pot of mussels to the table and let everyone eat their fill, tossing the shells into a big bowl. The right way to eat a mussel is with your fingers, using a shell to pluck out the sweet meat and as a spoon for the broth. serves 4 to 6
1½ pounds mussels per person
4 tablespoons butter
1 medium onion or 2 large shallots, finely diced
Salt and pepper
3 garlic cloves, smashed to a paste with a little salt
1 large thyme sprig
1 bay leaf
2 cups dry white wine
A small bunch of parsley
2 crisp baguettes
First clean the mussels by putting them in a large basin of cold water. Give them a few swishes to loosen any sand or grit. Inspect each mussel and pull off the little “beard” that attaches them to rocks or rope. All of this is accomplished quickly, since most farmed mussels are quite clean when they come to market. Put the mussels in a colander and cover them with a damp towel until you’re ready to cook them.
In a large deep heavy-bottomed pot with a lid—a big enameled cast-iron pot is perfect, or two pots if you don’t have one big enough—melt the butter over medium heat. Add the onion or shallots and a little salt and pepper and stew gently until softened, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic, thyme sprig, bay leaf, wine, and mussels, cover, and steam the mussels over high heat for about 10 minutes, until they are all open. You’ll need to remove the lid and stir the mussels around several times to distribute them so they cook evenly.
While the mussels are steaming, chop the parsley, so it’s fresh. When the mussels are done, toss in the chopped parsley and stir.
Bring the steaming pot to the table and ladle out a big bowlful for each person. Put the baguettes on the table. Encourage sopping.
Apples are synonymous with Normandy and Brittany, and cider is the drink of choice with both galettes and mussels. Everybody makes their own cider. It is very lightly alcoholic, with just a few little bubbles, and tastes fresh and delicious. A tiny glass of Calvados, the local brandy made from apples, makes a pleasant little digestif.
Compôte de pommes sounds fancy, but it’s just good, homemade applesauce that really tastes of apple. It’s not too sweet, and it has just a touch of perfume from the lemon slice. This method works with any kind of apple.
6 large apples
½ cup sugar
1 lemon slice
1 cup water
Peel, quarter, and core the apples. Put them in a heavy-bottomed pot, add the sugar, lemon slice, and water, and bring to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Cover and let cook for about 20 minutes, until the apples are soft. Turn off the heat and let the apples sit in the pot, covered, until cool.
When the apples have cooled, mash them a bit with a wooden spoon, but leave them chunky. Stir to incorporate the juices, and serve at room temperature.
Though I usually cook with more olive oil than butter, since we’re in this region, butter rules! And it’s such good butter. In France, you can find really good store-bought butter cookies, but in the States you have to make your own.
French butter has a higher fat content and a lower moisture content. It makes a real difference in cookies and pastry—worth the expense. makes about 4 dozen cookies
½ pound (2 sticks) best-quality unsalted butter, softened
¾ cup sugar
2 egg yolks
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 cups all-purpose flour
In a large mixing bowl, cream the butter with the sugar, using an electric mixer. Add the egg yolks, salt, and vanilla extract and beat well. Work in the flour to make a soft dough.
Divide the dough in half and shape into 2 logs, about 1 inch in diameter. Wrap with plastic wrap and chill for about an hour, until the logs are firm enough to slice.
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Slice the dough into ½-inch-thick disks and transfer to parchment-lined baking sheets, spacing the cookies about an inch apart. Bake for 12 to 15 minutes, until the cookies have turned golden. Cool on a rack.
menu twenty
Bollito Misto of Tongue and Brisket with Two Sauces
As a child, I was a spinach and liver fan—and among the other things that I did not find repulsive was tongue. Not that my mother was an adventuresome cook, but (beef) tongue was a normal thing in our house. You just put it in the pot and let it go. We would eat it with applesauce. Cold applesauce. Nobody was grossed out or squeamish the way they seem to be today. And tongue made a great sandwich the next day on white bread with Miracle Whip.
Tongue goes in and out of favor in the American kitchen. There’s more than beef tongue to enjoy. Veal tongue, like veal itself, is more delicate than beef, especially with a light mushroom sauce. Or cold with mustard and pickles. It’s the star of the renowned French tête de veau, served with sauce gribiche. Lamb’s tongues are absolutely delicious—one per person, simmered gently in an aromatic broth and sliced thin and served with a vinaigrette, warm or cold. Can I just say, “Oh, my lord!”
Pork tongues don’t come to market often, but if you can find them, they’re perfectly delicious. Classic Italian testa, the Italian version of head cheese, has lots of pork tongue and orange zest. Like pork, tongue can be corned and smoked. Both preparations enhance the meat’s lusciousness. Unlike other offal, tongue is easy to love. There’s no strong flavor or texture that you have to overcome to enjoy it. And tongue is not really an organ, it’s just another piece of meat.
In general, all tongue is prepared in a similar fashion: Salt it overnight, then simmer gently, and serve warm or cool. The only challenge in preparing tongue is the peeling. A tongue will never peel until it is completely, completely cooked, but once cooked, it almost peels itself.
If you don’t feel like cooking, every good taco truck has tacos de lengua, beef tongue tacos with sweet onions and chiles. They are over-the-top delicious—the best thing on the taco menu.
Katz’s Delicatessen on Manhattan’s Lower East Side still serves a half tongue, half pastrami sandwich. But there are not many places left where you can count on getting a slice of hot tongue and a boiled potato, even in New York.
Because the bollito is a very hearty meal, you want only a tiny taste of a first course, and since you’re going to be having mostly meat, it should preferably be vegetables. So you could prepare a plate of sliced fresh fennel and radishes with salt and lemon—Italian-style crudités. Or make these greens crostini.
¼ cup olive oil, plus extra for the toasts
4 garlic cloves, finely chopped
½ teaspoon red pepper flakes
4 anchovy fillets, rinsed and chopped
4 cups rapini (broccoli rabe), or a mixture of chard, mustard greens, and full-grown spinach leaves, coarsely chopped
Salt and pepper
1 baguette, preferably day-old, sliced into ¼-inch-thick rounds
Lemon wedges
Preheat the oven to 375°F. Heat the oil in a wide skillet over medium heat. Add the garlic, red pepper flakes, and anchovies and let them sizzle without browning. Add all the greens to the skillet, with any water from washing still clinging to the leaves, season with salt and pepper, stir well, and put on the lid. Let the greens steam and wilt, stirring once or twice, for about 5 minutes.
Meanwhile, make the toasts. Paint the slices very lightly with olive oil, spread them in one layer on a baking sheet, and bake until barely browned, about 10 minutes. Cool the toasts.
When the greens are wilted but still bright green, transfer them to a platter to cool to room temperature. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
To serve, put a forkful of greens on each toast and squeeze a bit of lemon over the top, or have people make their own. (If you have leftover greens, add them to a pasta or bean soup.)
There is, of course, the grand bollito misto of legendary Italian restaurants—where an elegant trolley of boiled meats and vegetables is wheeled over to your table—but this is very much a home version. You need another meat besides tongue, here brisket, to make the great broth that bollito is famous for. Bollito is always made with leftovers in mind, so this recipe will serve 4 to 6—and give you plenty of broth for risotto or meat for ravioli filling or a next-day salad.
1 beef tongue, about 3 pounds
One 4-pound beef brisket
Salt and pepper
1 large onion, peeled, halved, and stuck with 1 clove
1 large carrot, peeled and halved
1 small celery stalk
1 bay leaf
1 thyme sprig
6 black peppercorns
6 quarts water
2 pounds medium Yellow Finn potatoes, peeled
1 small bunch parsley, leaves chopped
Coarse salt
Dijon mustard
Begin preparing the bollito the night before: Season the tongue and brisket generously with salt and pepper. Cover them and refrigerate overnight.
The next day, rinse the tongue and beef with cool water and put in a large heavy-bottomed soup pot. Add the onion, carrot, celery, bay leaf, thyme, and peppercorns, cover with the water, and bring to a hard boil. Then turn down the heat to a low simmer and simmer very gently, spooning off any scum that rises to the surface, for about 3 hours. The brisket should be done at about the 3-hour mark—tender but not falling apart. Take it out of the pot and let it cool to room temperature.
While the brisket may be tender, the tongue might still have a way to go. Take it from the pot and put it on a cutting board. The only way to tell if the tongue is done: use a small paring knife to test if it is peelable—can the white skin be easily removed? If not, return the tongue to the pot for a little while longer, then remove it and peel while it is still warm. Discard the skin and allow the tongue to cool to room temperature.
In a large saucepan, cover the potatoes with water, add a spoonful of salt, bring to a boil, and boil for 15 minutes, or until tender. Drain and let sit for 5 minutes or more, covered.
Meanwhile, strain the broth and degrease it. Taste and adjust the seasoning.
Both the brisket and tongue may need a slight trimming of fat and gristle. Slice as much tongue as you intend to serve crosswise into thin slices. Ditto with the beef. Warm the meat in the broth.
Remove the sliced meat from the broth and arrange it on a generous platter. Surround with the potatoes, sprinkle liberally with the parsley, carry it to the table, and enjoy. Serve everyone a small cup of broth to sip immediately. Then pass the platter, with the coarse salt, mustard, and caper and red pepper sauces.
{variation} tongue and/or brisket vinaigrette with capers
Depending on the state of your leftovers, both the tongue and brisket are delicious the next day sliced thin and dressed with an assertive vinaigrette. Nearly any vinaigrette you can think up will work, especially mustard or anchovy, or a simple mix of olive oil, capers, lemon juice, and a lot of chopped parsley.
Caper Sauce
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
2 teaspoons capers, rinsed
1 cup olive oil
2 tablespoons each coarsely chopped parsley, basil, and chives
Generous pinch of cayenne
Salt and pepper to taste
Put all the ingredients in a blender and blend on high speed until the herbs are well pureed, the sauce emulsified and thick. Taste and adjust the seasonings. Pour into a small serving bowl. (The sauce can be made an hour or so ahead.)
Red Pepper Sauce
1 cup good-quality canned tomatoes, drained
1 garlic clove
½ teaspoon cayenne
Salt and pepper
1 sweet red pepper, roasted, or ½ cup jarred roasted peppers
¼ cup olive oil
Put all the ingredients in a blender and blend on high speed to a thick puree. Taste and adjust the seasonings. Pour into a small serving bowl and serve.
These cookies are a variation on the classic brutti-ma-buoni (ugly-but-good). It’s important to use the freshest walnuts and pine nuts you can find. Toast the nuts separately on a dry baking sheet and let them cool before proceeding. makes about 2 dozen cookies
2 cups walnuts, halves or pieces, lightly toasted
3 tablespoons all-purpose flour
¾ cup granulated sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
½ cup pine nuts, lightly toasted but not browned
4 egg whites
½ teaspoon salt
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Line a cookie sheet with parchment paper.
Put the walnuts in a food processor. Add the flour and granulated sugar and pulse for about 30 seconds, taking care to leave the walnuts in coarse pebble-sized chunks. Transfer the mixture to a bowl and stir in the brown sugar and pine nuts.
In a separate bowl, whisk the egg whites with the salt until frothy. Fold the egg whites into the nut mixture and stir with a wooden spoon to incorporate.
With a teaspoon, drop the batter into rough cookie shapes about 1 inch apart on the baking sheet.
Bake until barely browned, about 10 minutes. Cool on a rack.
