Homegrown Cholent

So many methods of making pot roast are disappointing. The meat too often comes out of the oven dry and tough. I've settled on traditional Jewish cholent as our preferred method of cooking a piece of beef shoulder for a long time, braising it in a heavy pot with beans and barley.

The result is something much more than pot roast, a gooey unctuous stew that goes straight to the soul and lifts the spirits on a cold winters night.

Traditionally, Jewish cholent was placed in a low oven just before sundown preceding the sabbath so there would be a warm, hearty lunch to serve the following day, when cooking was forbidden. I don't cook mine nearly as long--only five hours.

Last night we had friends over to help us eat a big pot of cholent made with chuck roast from our dairy--South Mountain Creamery--as well as cranberry beans from our own garden. On the side were roasted carrots and parsnips pulled in the morning from the soil where they are overwintering. They are even more sweet and delicious having been touched by the cold. For dessert, my wife served an intoxicating, flourless clementine cake.

Proof again that the simplest foods are the most satisfying.

Lunch: Braised Beet Greens with Red Wine and Sectioned Oranges

We don't make beet greens often because there just aren't enough of them on the typical bunch of beets you buy in the store or at the farmers market.

But this morning I cleared out a whole bed of beets that had been planted last August. (Yes, you heard right--last August.) My haul was quite a load of big, healthy beets, as well as a bin full of greens. I separated the greens from the beets, then filled the kitchen sink with cold water, where the greens got a good soak and a wash. While the greens refreshed, I sorted through them, saving the majority (with stems) and tossing the wilted and damaged ones into the compost container.

I had an idea to braise these greens and literally was casting about the kitchen, looking for things to add to the pot. There were some garlic cloves, some shallots, a partial bottle of red wine and an orange sitting on the countertop. That all sounded good to me, so I fired up my big cast-iron skillet.

In the end, I had about 1 1/2 gallons of greens, so this formula is for a big mess of beet greens. Adjust according to the quantity you have on hand.

In a large skillet, heat a tablespoon or two of extra-virgin olive oil and saute over low heat 3 shallots, peeled and cut into thin rings, and 3 cloves garlic, smashed and roughly chopped. When the shallot begins to soften, start adding the cleaned beet greens. They will be dripping water, which is fine for the braising. After filling the skillet with a 1-inch layer, drizzle some olive oil over the greens and season with a pinch of coarse salt. Turn up the heat to moderate and continue layering the beet greens with olive oil and salt until they are all in the skillet. It will make quite a mound, but will soon cook down.

As the greens cooks, turn them occasionally with your spring-loaded tongs and lower the heat so they just simmer. When the water has evaporated, after about 15 minutes, pour about 1/3 cup red wine over the greens and continue braising. If the skillet runs dry before the greens are perfectly tender, add some more wine. Season with black pepper.

Meanwhile, section two oranges over a bowl, removing the rind and pith but saving the juices. By now the pile of greens will be vastly reduced, enough to serve four to six people as a side dish. Pile the greens onto plates and garnish with orange sections and a drizzle of orange juice.

Fresh beet greens have a hearty, intensely satisfying meaty flavor that is barely reminiscent of beets. There's not much else in the world of greens that can touch them. If you were eating them as a side dish, they'd go perfectly with roast pork. Even better, a gamey piece of venison.

Braised Cabbage, Restaurant Style

Years ago Julia Child and Robert Mondavi started a group called American Institute of Wine & Food and I happen to be a member of the local chapter here in the nation's capitol.

Mostly what the group does is organize dinners to meet the chefs and sample the food a local restaurants. I rarely go to those events, but I am particularly enthusiastic about one such outing at the Charlie Palmer's steak house where we spend a good part of the afternoon cooking with Chef Bryan Voltaggio, then sit for a late, multi-course lunch with several different bottles of wine served by the resident sommelier.

This year we covered the following:

* Preparing turkey two different ways, deep-frying and roasting, and the differences between heritage turkey and the ordinary supermarket bird.

* Brining a turkey with Bourbon.

* Frenching, assembling and cooking a crown roast of veal.

* Corn bread stuffing with home-made sausage and sage.

* Chestnut soup

* Making marshmallows for roasted sweet potatoes

* Creme brulees flavored with fresh vanilla and mint, and burned with ground candy canes.

That right there was worth the price of admission. You might even say that learning two different professional methods for Frenching a rack of veal was worth the price of admission.

But, in addition, we had a chance to banter with the chef a little over his preference for dumping large quantities of butter, cream and eggs into his cornbread stuffing (I mentioned heart-healthy alternatives and was roundly booed by everyone assembled).

We learned that the chef puts roasted chicken wings into his chestnut soup, which are then ground up with the vegetables and strained to make an incredibly rich concoction.

I discovered that Chef Voltaggio prefers to use metric weights and Celsius temperature reading when cooking with sugar because they are more accurate.

And I was pleased to pass along to my wife the ideas for mint in the creme brulee and burning with ground candy canes. She loves making creme brulees.

Then, after helping with some of the cooking, we sat down to eat everything. Did I mention that I was pretty much useless for the rest of the day?

This cooking lesson/orgy happened to fall on a day when I am normally making client meals and it also happened that Chef Voltaggio had braised red cabbage on the menu. That got my attention, since I was planning to make the very same dish for my client.

What I normally do is simply saute some red onion, then add a chopped head of cabbage, salt and some red wine vinegar to cook in a heavy pot. Significantly, at Charlie Palmer's they cook their cabbage with red wine and port in addition to the vinegar. And they throw in a sachet of cinnamon and star anise.

Well, that makes all the difference. So I wanted to pass along my amended recipe for braised red cabbage.

To wit: First, divide a medium head of red cabbage into quarters and trim away the core around the stem. Cut the cabbage into thin strips (they do this on a deli-style meat slicer at Charlie Palmer's, I do it by hand with a knife). Reserve the cabbage. Thinly slice one or two shallots.

Place the shallots along with 1/2 cup red wine, 1/4 cup red wine vinegar and 1/4 cup port wine in a heavy pot or Dutch oven. Bring to a boil and reduce by one-third. Add the cabbage to the pot and season with about 1 teaspoon coarse salt. Stir in one tart apple (such as Granny Smith), grated. Add a sachet containing one stick cinnamon and one star anise. Cover the pot, lower the heat and simmer for 1 1/2 hours, or until the cabbage is extremely tender and flavorful.

The salt will draw the liquid out of the cabbage, adding to the cooking broth. But if at any point the pot looks like it might be getting dry, add some more wine.

Result: the most tender and flavorful red cabbage you have ever tasted. Serve it alongside a crown roast of veal, if you happen to have one. If not, a deep-fried Kentucky Bourbon turkey will do.

A Time to Braise

I am waking these days to the sound of the furnace clicking on. The recent plunge of the mercury adds a sense of urgency around the garden. We are bringing in the last of the tomatoes. The basil needs to be turned into pesto and frozen. We have a sudden taste for the deep flavors that attend the change in seasons.

In the summer, I am not so interested in cooking. I think I could easily survive on tomatoes from the garden, just raw with a little dressing, a shave of Parmesan cheese. Or perhaps some freshly dug potatoes, simply prepared and seasoned with a drizzle of olive oil, some coarse salt.

When cold weather arrives, though, I bring out the big guns, the heavy pot I using for braising. Now it is time to celebrate those tough cuts of meat, the muscles that have been working so hard and need a long, slow cooking to come up tender and moaning in their own unctuous juices.

Lamb shanks are one such cut. They are full of flavor and used to be so inexpensive. But now cooks have discovered them and they are not nearly so cheap, but not so dear that they can't be enjoyed from time to time. They don't need much in the way of treatment to yield a great depth of flavor. One of our favorite places for lamb shanks is a little Egyptian place a few blocks for our home where the food is like home cooking and a generous plate doesn't take a huge bite out of your wallet.

The best recipe for lamb shanks I know is from The Union Square Cafe Cookbook. The finished shanks are extremely rich and tender, falling off the bone, with a great depth of flavor from garlic and herbs. This should be served when you want to fill the house with meaty aromas.

The original recipe calls for cooking the shanks in the oven at 325 degrees, but I usually cook my braises at a lower temperature, around 250.

Preheat oven to 250 degrees

6 garlic cloves

4 lamb shanks

kosher salt

freshly ground black pepper

2 tablespoons flour

2 tablespoons olive oil

1 1/2 cups sliced onions

2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary

2 tablespoons chopped fresh mint

1 tablespoon fresh thyme leaves

1 tablespoon chopped parsley

1 cup white wine

3 cups veal stock (or substitute a mix of beef and chicken stock)

Cut one of the garlic cloves in half and rub it all over the lamb shanks. Slice the other cloves thin and set aside. Season the shanks with salt and pepper and dredge in flour.

Over moderately high heat, heat olive oil in a heavy pot or Dutch oven and brown the lamb shanks, in batches if necessary. Remove shanks from pot and set aside.

Toss the onions and sliced garlic into the pot and cook, stirring to scrape any brown bits off the bottom of the pot, until the onions are soft, about 5 minutes. Add rosemary, mint, thyme and parsley and cook another 3 or 4 minutes.

Add the wine to the pot, raise the heat and reduce by half. Stir in the veal stock (or beef-chicken stock mix), season with salt and pepper to taste and bring to a simmer. Place shanks in the pot, cover and bake for about 3 hours, or until the meat is fork-tender.

Uncover the pot and turn the oven up to 500 degrees. Let the shanks brown in the oven for about 20 minutes, basting the meat thoroughly with the pot juices every 5 minutes or so.

Remove the shanks from the pot and cover them to stay warm. Strain the pot into a bowl and use a bulb baster to skim off as much fat as possible. Return the gravy to the put and reduce by half over high heat on the stove. Serve the lamb, spooning some of the gravy over the meat and presenting the rest in a sauceboat on the side.

Braised Chicken: Tale of Two Titties

I swear, there should be a warning label on chicken breasts. First, they don't have any flavor. Secondly, they don't cook the same as the rest of the bird. But nobody wants to talk about it. The truth about chicken breasts constitutes one of the ugly secrets of the culinary world.

First, as to flavor: I defy anyone to show me where it is in the breast. Even on a free range bird (well, maybe a little flavor) the breast is not where it's at. The flavor is in what you put on the breast. So the breast really should be described as a flavorless vehicle for sauces. In the catering business, I stared into many a buffet platter looking at bland, flavorless chicken breast, wondering how many hours the chef spent trying to invent new things to put on it. Of course you can't serve anything but the breast at a large function. Someone might be offended by, say, a flavorful thigh. Too gamy, they might say. So, to play it safe, you serve chicken breast, neatly sliced and covered with a caper sauce, or a tomato salsa, or sauteed mushrooms.

Now think about it. In that last sentence, what made your mouth water? The chicken breast, or the caper sauce, the tomato salsa, the sauteed mushrooms?

Me, I am a thigh man. Legs don't appeal to me, primarily because of all that gristle and those tendons you have to chew around. Thighs are rich dark meat, full of juicy succulence. Sure, they have a few more calories than the breast. But if it's a choice between lots of flavor with a few extra calories, or no flavor and fewer calories, guess which way I'm headed?

Still, there are people who will eat nothing but breast meat. I pity them. I have one client for whom I made only thighs when I cooked chicken. Finally, he became so exasperated that he just blurted out one day that he DID NOT LIKE THIGHS! When I pointed out to him that breast meat has no flavor, he insisted, "Yes they do. If you cook them on the bone!"

Sorry. Bones do not add that much flavor to chicken breasts. Chicken breasts can only pray they have flavor in another life.

Now to the other matter of cooking times. I'm curious: If you turn to the duck cooking literature, the first thing out of the author's mouth is likely to be, Do not cook the breast meat and leg/thighs together. These different parts of the duck do not cook at the same rate. Breasts cook faster than dark meat. So, the thinking goes, if you try to cook a whole duck, the breasts will be dried out and inedible by the time the dark meat is cooked. Cook them separately, is the recommendation. Same thing with turkey. Anyone who's cooked more than one turkey knows the lengths you have to go to get the dark meat cooked without destroying the breasts. Some chefs do the same thing with turkeys they do with ducks: cook the breasts and the dark meat separately.

So why is this not the mantra with chickens? Why do we pay such scant attention to the different parts of this bird?

In fact, I have paid some attention. And like I said, I am now a thigh man. And I notice more and more recipes for thighs-only are popping up. One in particular I like is the recipe for thighs roasted with lemon, thyme and honey in the Zuni Cafe Cookbook. Another I'm especially fond of is my own interpretation of the "chicken Marbella" recipe that appeared years ago in The Silver Palate Cookbook. (Does anyone remember the Silver Palate series? It was all the rage back in the 80s.)

The original "chicken Marbella" called for four chickens to make 10 or more portions. But I use strictly thighs. Then I beef up the finished chicken by reducing the marinade until it is flavorful as all get out. You'll notice a North African influence in the sweet and sour mix of red wine vinegar and brown sugar (okay, maybe and Anglicized North African influence). The dried fruits and green olives may place this more in the fall/winter season. So quick! Make it before all the snow melts.

This recipe can be expanded to fit an even bigger crowd. In fact, I typically "roast/braise" the chicken on baking sheets for 30 or more people. After roasting in the oven, allow the thighs to cool, then pick the meat off the bones. Note: Start this dish two or three days in advance.

For 10 Servings

5 pounds chicken thighs

1 head garlic, peeled

1/2 cup red wine vinegar

1/2 cup olive oil

1/4 cup dried oregano

kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

1 cup pitted prunes

1/2 cup dried apricots

1/2 cup pitted green olives (choose Spanish or Moroccan olives)

1/2 cup capers with some juice

6 bay leaves

1 cup brown sugar

1 cup white wine

1/4 cup coarsely chopped parsley or cilantro

Place chicken thighs in large mixing bowl. In a blender, mix garlic, vinegar and olive oil until smooth. Pour over chicken thighs. Season with oregano, salt and pepper. Mix in prunes, apricots, olives, capers and bay leaves. Cover with plastic and marinate overnight.

The following day, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Spread chicken thighs and marinade on baking sheet. Sprinkle with brown sugar. Pour white wine around chicken thighs. Place in oven and bake until chicken is golden and cooked through, about 45 minutes. Set aside to cool.

When chicken is cool enough to handle, remove meat from thighs and discard bones and bay leaves. Set olives, prunes and apricots aside. Meanwhile, separate fat from pan liquids. Either pour liquid into sauce pan and skim fat away using a spoon or turkey baster. If using a grease separator, strain liquid into separator saving solids for later. Discard fat. Place remaining liquid in small sauce pan. Bring to boil and cook until liquid is reduced by about 1/3. Return solids to pan.

To serve, ladle finished sauce along with olives, prunes and apricots over chicken. I like to accompany this dish with a brown basmati rice pilaf tossed with toasted almonds and parsley. Since there are no onions in the chicken, you can dice some red onion and put it in the pilaf.

Now tell me you can do anything with a chicken breast that tastes this good.

The Accidental Coq au Vin

I did not begin the week intending to make a coq au vin. But as so often happens, things kept pointing me in that direction. First, it was our turn to receive the chicken from the farm subscription we share with my sister and her husband. So there sat the bird the last several days, chilling in a bowl in our refrigerator, demanding some kind of attention. Then I noticed my wife, for no particular reason, had purchased some cipollini onions at the grocery store. ("I just thought they looked good," she shrugged). Then there was the half-used slab of bacon, not particularly well wrapped, just laying there in the fridge on top of some jars of Thai curry and such. Before you can say "Le Creuset" I was pulling one of my favorite books off the shelf in search of an "authentic" coq au vin recipe.

Why do I use quotes around the word authentic? The word seems to have come under a cloud. Or is it that we just question the true origins of everything these days, as if good food can't merely be good on its own terms, it must also have a certifiable pedigree? The fights are endless. For instance, how can a tomato pizza really be authentically Italian, when the Italians didn't even have tomatoes until they were brought from the Americas in the 16th Century? So I suppose you could question whether a French coq au vin is truly "authentic" if you consider the possibility that the original chicken came from, say, Armenia, and was first cooked in wine there. So, to be more precise, I guess I should say I was looking for a method of cooking coq au vin as we know it, namely, from somewhere where the cooking of coq au vin is not merely sport, not something people do occasionally to get their picture on the cover of a food magazine, but serious business going back a long, long time. That's why I reached for my copy of Mourjou.

If you love cooking in the fashion of people who really care about what they eat, who obsess over the freshness of the products they cook with, who cook in a manner that has been passed down for generations--if you care, in other words, about preparing food to be enjoyed for its fullness of flavor and in its own good time, then this is a book you should own. The complete title is, Mourjou: The Life and Food of an Auvergne Village, and it was written by a Brit expatriot named Peter Graham, who, besides writing books, also directs small films and writes about travel and art and psychoanalysis and a number of other things that make his life seem perfectly pleasant and sane. At some point more than 20 years ago he picked up and moved to this tiny village, Mourjou, in the province of Auvergne in south-central France, a sometimes mysterious place where lush valleys co-exist with dormant volcanoes, where a verdant landscape dotted with small herds of lazy cattle is cross-hatched with deep canyons and snaggle-toothed mountain peaks. There are also small villages such as Mourjou where ancient customs are still kept, where neigbhors nose around each other's kitchen gardens and where family recipes are guarded like state secrets. In particular, I treasure books like Graham's because books like Mourjou just aren't being written much anymore. Remember? We're all too busy to read well-written prose about food. We're just here for the recipes, or so they say...

Anyway, I thought Mourjou might be a good place to look for a coq au vin recipe and--Bingo!--I was right. In fact, Mr. Graham writes a nice little takeout on the means and methods of coq au vin, including an amusing explanation for why, throughout the text, he chooses to use the French word--coq--rather than the literal English translation. "I use the word coq because it is a way of avoiding the problem, in English, of the word 'cock', "Graham explains paranthetically. So I will follow Mr. Graham's lead.

The first issue to be surmounted, as usual, is which version of coq au vin to adopt. This is no less a problem for Mr. Graham. "Coq au vin is a dish, like potee, which is found in slightly differing versions all over France," he writes. (There we go again, the authenticity thing.) "There is even a slender tome called Coq au Vin, which contains sixty-one slightly differing recipes for the dish." Several regions of France lay claim to the "original" coq au vin. And even in the province of Auverge, there are disputes over which ingredients should go into a proper coq au vin and how it should be cooked. "Should it include the fowl's blood as well as wine? Should the lardons be smoked or unsmoked? Should the sauce be thickened with beurre manie and/or the mashed-up liver?" There are even questions about whether the bird should first be marinated in wine and--perhaps the most troubling question of all--must the fowl in question be an actual coq (meaning an older male), or can we use--perish the thought--a plain old ordinary chicken?

Graham doesn't say, exactly, how he resolves these dilemmas. He really ducks the question entirely (no pun intended). Perhaps he is guarding someone else's family's recipe secret. He does acknowledge some trouble finding an actual coq, even in his adopted village. He sometimes succedes by visiting a local farm. The wine, he says, should be "a dark earthy wine made on the hills overlooking Clermon-Ferrand." Then, after describing how the farmer's wife, Nicole, must be persuaded to charge for her time plucking and preparing the bird, Graham simply launches into a recipe. I just have to assume that Graham has resolved all the aforementioned issues to his personal satisfaction. So his is the recipe I've followed, more or less. Note: This dish needs to marinate 24 hours before cooking, and is even better if you give it another day to rest in the refrigerator after it has been cooked. You do the math.

Serves 6 persons

Graham calls for a coq "at least two years old." But if you can't find one of those, he will allow "a very large free-range chicken of the highest quality," about 4 1/2 pounds.

2 ounces lard, or, in my case, the grease from several slices of fried bacon (I didn't want to buy a whole tub of lard).

15 pickling onions (I used about a dozen cipollini onions of various sizes)

3 1/2 ounces salt pork, diced large

6 ounces button mushroom (I substituted cremini mushrooms)

For the marinade:

1 bottle dark, full-bodied red wine (I used a French Syrah from the Camargue area near Nimes)

bouquet garni: two sprigs thyme, 2 sprigs flat-leaf parsley, 2 sprigs winter savory (I omitted the savory--couldn't find any), 1 bay leaf

2 carrots, quartered

2 large cloves garlic

large pinch salt

freshly ground pepper to taste

As in most braises of this type, the meat is first marinated, then dried and browned in oil before all of the ingredients are assembled in the pot and placed in the oven.

Cut the coq (or chicken) into pieces: legs, thighs, breasts. Cut the breasts in half. Remove as much fat as possible and remove the skin from the breasts and thighs. Place the pieces of bird in a non-reactive bowl or pot, pour the marinade over it. Cover and refrigerate 24 hours.

The next day: Preheat oven to 250 degrees

Drain the poultry well, blotting any leftover moisture with paper towels. Save the marinade with its solids. Meanwhile, in a heavy pot, heat the lard (or bacon grease) over moderately high heat. Brown the poultry pieces well on all sides, in batches if necessary. Remove and set aside. Place the salt pork and onions in the hot grease, turning occasionally until the onions are golden. (If using cipollinis, they must be blanched in boiling water first, the skins removed.)

Remove the pot from the stove. Pack the poultry pieces, onions, salt pork and mushrooms into the pot. Pour the marinade with its solids into the pot. Place pot in oven and cook 2 1/2 hours, or until chicken is very tender but not falling off the bone. (Note: Graham calls for 2 hours cooking in a 350 oven, but I think 250 degrees is amore appropriate braising temperature to avoid overcooking.)

Allow the pot to cool. Remove all the poultry, onions and mushrooms and place on a baking sheet, separating and discarding the carrots, herbs and other solids from the marinade. Strain the cooking liquid into a separate container (you could use a grease separator at this point to remove most of the grease). Cover the cooked coq au vin and refrigerate it and the cooking liquid overnight.

The following day, skim fat off the surface of the cooking liquid. To serve: Reheat coq au vin in 250-degree oven. While this is reheating, chop the fowl's liver finely, removing any gristle. Just before serving, drain the cooking liquid through a strainer into a blender and blend it with the liver until smooth. Place the liquid in a small pot over medium-high heat on the stove and cook until somewhat thickened. Pour the hot liquid over the coq au vin as it is going to the table.