I first cooked steak with my father on Saturday evenings at home. It was a great treat. Steak nights had my father—an inveterately neat cook—with all his ingredients laid out in precise display, almost like a cookery demonstration (or like his dental practice). I am grateful that he passed his sense of order on to me.
There would be the steak, chopped mushrooms, butter, garlic, Worcestershire sauce, brandy, parsley, cream, salt, and pepper. The steaks were fried in the butter, doused in a little Worcestershire sauce, mushrooms added and fried with the garlic, and then the brandy was added. Flames shot up and, of course, this was the exciting bit. (I recall that pyrotechnics never occurred in any other dish.) Finally, cream was poured in and the cooking was over. Steak Diane? I’m not too sure. But it was delicious.
However, it was not until I went to work at the Normandie (see Endive, here) that I really came to understand steak. It was the best thing that Yves Champeau cooked. I think he really understood, and what’s more, enjoyed cooking steak more than anything else. After roasting a chicken, I find myself admitting to the same inclination. There used to be a simple steak sauté on the menu at the Normandie. It was a piece of fillet, seasoned and fried in foaming butter. Nothing else. Just that. Gently, carefully fried, coated in buttery, meaty juices. Heaven. Also, there were rump steaks, single and double, grilled and served for one or two people, and côtes de bœuf. All served with béarnaise and pommes frites. There was also entrecôte marchand de vin—literally, wine merchant’s steak but, in fact, steak in a red wine sauce.
Then there was the steak au poivre. A real masterpiece of a dish. Simple, of course, but remarkable for its unchanging format.
When it comes to choosing the right steak for the right dish, it is, to a certain extent, a matter for you. But there are a few things to remember: fillet steak is tops for tenderness but forgoes flavor; sirloin or entrecôte is the most common steak that you will come across. I find it boring, to be quite honest, and it falls between the good flavor of my favorite, rump steak, and the texture of a buttery fillet.
Grilling produces a terrific crust on beef that contrasts well with a rosy-red and juicy inside. For this reason, I have never understood the wish for a well-done steak. I understand that the sight of underdone and bloody meat can be off-putting, but I would rather have a stew any day if I wanted to eat well-cooked meat. The most important thing about grilling steak is to make sure that the grill is very hot, and your chosen steak must be well-oiled and seasoned. The combination of these two things produces the desired savory crust. Similarly, when frying, the oil should be almost smoking before you start to cook.
There is one other cut of meat I must mention. The French call it onglet and we British have a little more trouble in giving it one name. Sometimes it is called feather steak, sometimes skirt, and in France they classify it under offal. It is to be found inside the rib cage of the animal close to the vital organs. In fact, often when I have bought it, there is a stray piece of liver attached to one end of the cut. It has a real meaty flavor and, if you like that sort of thing, this is the steak of all steaks. The classic way of cooking it in France is onglet aux échalotes. It is grilled or sautéed and smothered in fried shallots. Many people may find it unacceptably tough. I would disagree, but then I like to use my teeth and I like to use my tastebuds.
This recipe remains unchanged since I first saw it cooked by Yves Champeau at the Normandie some twenty-odd years ago. This isn’t your steak au poivre with five different peppercorns, or cream, or mustard, or anything else. It’s the steak, the pepper, butter, and brandy and, if you wish, a little meat juice. Though, in fact, there isn’t really a sauce to speak of, it’s just buttery-brandy juices. The best steak to use for this is a fat little rump steak that you can only come by if you’ve boned out your own rump of beef. In Britain, rump steaks are sliced straight across the whole thing and what you end up with is a thin and ineptly cut piece of meat. This is where French butchery comes into its own, as their preparation of only the best parts of the rump will produce a good, thick steak. More often than not, I end up using a fillet steak (nowhere near as much flavor as rump), as it ideally lends itself to this recipe.
2 tbsp white peppercorns
2 tbsp black peppercorns
four 6-oz fillet steaks
salt
3 tbsp olive oil
6 tbsp unsalted butter
2 good slugs of Cognac
2 tbsp meat juices/glaze (see here) (optional)
Crush the peppercorns coarsely in a pestle and mortar or in a coffee grinder. Tip the pepper into a sieve and shake well until all remnants of powder have been dispersed. (This is very important because the excess powder will cause the steaks to be far too hot.) Press the peppercorns into both sides of each steak with your fingers, pressing well with the heel of your hand. Only now season with salt, because salting first will not allow the pepper to stick to the meat.
Heat the olive oil in a frying pan until hot. Put in the steaks and fry on one side thoroughly, but not on full heat, until a good thick crust has formed. Add 4 tbsp of the butter and allow to color to nut brown. Turn the steaks over, and finish cooking to suit your taste. Try to resist turning too often—the aim is to produce a good crusty coating on each surface. Baste with the buttery juices as you go. Remove the steaks to hot plates, add the Cognac to the pan, and whisk together with the butter. It matters not whether the brandy ignites, but the alcohol must be boiled off. Add the meat glaze, if using, scrape and stir together any gooey bits from the bottom of the pan, and whisk in the final bit of butter. Give a final boil and pour over the steaks. Serve with fries and a green salad.
Every now and again, when you need to boost a sauce or a gravy, then a spoonful or two of meat glaze can work wonders. Make it on a day when you really feel like cooking, because it is not something that you can rush or be slap-dash about. This is not just a stock made from bits and pieces, it is a carefully thought-out combination of ingredients that, after long, slow cooking and final reduction, will result in a tasty and intensely flavored savory syrup. It is not something that is usually used in its own right—the recipe for Lacy’s Oeufs en Cocotte (see here), which only uses a very small amount, is an exception—rather, it is used to embellish, enrich, and add depth of flavor.
2 tbsp oil
2 lb veal bones (preferably knuckle), chopped into small pieces by your butcher
1 lb cheap, fatless beef, such as chuck or shin, chopped into lumps
6 large flat, black mushrooms
3 carrots, peeled and chopped
2 onions, peeled and chopped
3 celery stalks, chopped
4 garlic cloves, peeled and crushed
1 tbsp tomato purée
1 wineglass of red wine
1 wineglass of white wine
2 thyme sprigs
1 bay leaf
½ chicken or beef stock (bouillon) cube
8 cups cold water
Preheat the oven to 425°F. Drizzle the oil over the bones in a heavy-duty roasting pan, and with your hands move them around so that they are evenly coated. Roast in the oven until golden brown, turning them from time to time to prevent them scorching. This is important, as burned bits will turn a stock bitter. This should take between 30 and 40 minutes.
Remove the roasting pan from the oven to a burner and, over a moderate heat, put in the beef. Turn around with the bones until similarly browned, add the vegetables, garlic, and tomato purée, and stir them around with the meat and bones until they are lightly colored. Add the wines, and with a wooden spoon, scrape up any crusty bits from the bottom of the pan. Allow to bubble until well reduced. Tip into a large pot—rinse out any left-behind bits with a little water. Put in the herbs and stock cube, and add the cold water. Stir together and bring to the boil very gently, then turn down to a mere simmer. A great froth of scum will settle on the top, which has to be removed with a ladle, for as long as it is generated. The idea is to remove as many impurities as possible, which will include fatty particles that also conveniently settle on the surface. The stock should cook, uncovered, for about 4 hours on the gentlest heat possible; little blips on the surface are all that should be happening.
With a large ladle, carefully lift the bones and liquid into a colander sitting over a clean pan. Allow to drain for a good 20 minutes until every drop has passed through. Throw away all the solids, and allow the liquid to settle completely so that any fat comes to the surface. Remove this fat with several sheets of paper towels by placing directly on the surface of the stock and lifting off immediately. This can be very successful, but if you want to do the best job possible, then allow the stock to cool, place in the fridge overnight so that any fat will completely solidify. This can be lifted off in a solid disc.
All the defatting finished, place the clean stock on the heat and once again bring slowly to the boil. Yet more scum is about to be thrown off. So watch like a hawk for a thin blanket of creamy scum to form on the surface, and then whip it off in one go with a large spoon or ladle—this is actually very satisfying. Turn down to a simmer and look out from time to time for more scum to appear. (I often ask myself where does it all come from.) Gently reduce until the stock has turned the color of a horse chestnut, and is of a light and syrupy consistency. This meat glaze will be about one-tenth of the original volume. Pour into a small porcelain or stainless steel pot, cover when cool, and it will keep in the fridge for a couple of weeks. Or, you can pour it into ice-cube trays and store in the freezer.