Mallmann on Fire
Page 6
1 tablespoon extra virgin olive oil
FOR SERVING
Grilled bread
Cubed heirloom tomatoes
Diced red onion
To make the lentils, heat the olive oil in a deep heavy pot over medium heat. Add the pancetta, onions, and garlic and sauté until the pancetta renders its fat and the onions are softened. Add the mushroom, red wine, tomatoes, lentils, and thyme, bring to a boil, and let bubble for a couple of minutes to reduce the wine and let the vegetables absorb its flavor. Add the stock and bring to a boil, then lower the heat and simmer for about 40 minutes, until the lentils are tender. The mixture should be soupy; if necessary, add some water. Season to taste with salt and pepper.
Meanwhile, make the meatballs: Combine the ground meat, vinegar, mustard, garlic, basil, chives, parsley, and red pepper flakes in a bowl and mix well with your hands or a wooden spoon. Mix in the egg. Shape the mixture into 12 meatballs.
Brush a large cast-iron skillet with the oil and heat over medium-high heat until it shimmers. Add the meatballs, in batches if necessary, giving them plenty of space to brown, and cook until browned on the first side, about 3 minutes. Turn and brown the other side. Transfer the meatballs to a plate as they are done and set aside.
When the lentils are done, add them to the same skillet and bring to a low bubble, scraping up any caramelized juices on the bottom of the pan and stirring to combine. Nestle the meatballs in the lentils and simmer until they are cooked through, about 15 minutes. If the lentils become dry, add a little water.
Serve with grilled bread, tomatoes, and onions.
Cowboy Rib Eye a la Plancha with Crispy Brioche Salad and Grilled Dates
I first learned the technique of pan-roasting rib eye when I apprenticed in France. Before that, I had always cooked steak on a grill over an open fire. But you can get a gorgeous crunchy crust with a luscious pink interior using a cast-iron skillet or a chapa. When I dreamed up this recipe on the shores of Red Hook, we were in sight of the Statue of Liberty, a gift from the French people to the United States, so I felt duty bound to include a French touch—and decided to toast some brioche on the chapa. Toast wants something sweet on it, so onto the chapa as well went some dates and, for contrast and piquancy, some arugula. SERVES 2 OR 3
One 2-inch-thick bone-in rib-eye steak, about 2 pounds
About ⅓ cup extra virgin olive oil
Fleur de sel
1 small brioche loaf (about 6 ounces), crusts trimmed off, torn into rough ½-inch pieces (about 2 cups)
½ cup Dijon mustard
Freshly ground black pepper
½ teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes, or to taste
4 large, soft fresh dates, such as Medjool, pitted and spread open
1 bunch arugula, tough stems removed
Heat a chapa or a cast-iron griddle over medium heat. Pat the steak dry with paper towels. Brush the chapa generously with olive oil. When the oil shimmers, sprinkle one side of the steak with fleur de sel and set it salt side down on the hot surface. After about 10 minutes, when the steak is browned and crusty on the bottom, season the top with salt and flip it over to cook on the other side for about 8 more minutes, or until nicely browned. Stand the steak upright on its side to brown the fat for several minutes, then lay it back down and cook on each side for a minute or two, until the internal temperature reaches 120°F for rare. Transfer it to a carving board and let it rest for 10 minutes while you make the brioche salad. (The temperature will increase slightly as it rests.)
Add a tablespoon of olive oil to the pan drippings. Arrange the pieces of brioche on the hot surface to toast: this can take less than a minute, depending on the heat of the chapa, so keep your eye on them and turn them before they burn. As the bread is toasting, dot it all over with the mustard, and season with salt, black pepper, and the red pepper flakes. Drizzle olive oil generously over it, then fit the dates in, cut side down. Scatter the arugula over the top and, using two spatulas, toss it all together as you would a salad, scraping up the drippings, oil, and mustard to combine. Sprinkle the salad generously with olive oil and heap it on a serving platter.
Slice the meat, season with salt and pepper, and drizzle with olive oil. Serve with the salad, spooning the juices over all.
Côte de Bœuf a la Parrilla with Maître d’Hôtel Butter
People say you can judge a restaurant by its roast chicken. Equally true for me, you can tell a lot about the quality of a nation’s beef by the beauty of its rib-eye steak. It’s a luxurious cut, shot through with succulent fat that makes it tender. In France, I used my Argentine grill to cook a côte de bœuf from their wonderful Charolais cattle, huge beasts with meat that is almost purple. Maître d’hôtel butter, which I learned to make during my first French apprenticeship, is nothing more than a mix of butter, parsley, and lemon. You might ask why a fatty cut like a côte de bœuf would need more fat. You will have your answer when you taste this. SERVES 2
FOR THE MAÎTRE D’HÔTEL BUTTER
4 tablespoons unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme
2 tablespoons minced fresh flat-leaf parsley
1 tablespoon fresh lemon juice
A bunch of thyme
2 strips lemon zest
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
¼ cup extra virgin olive oil
¼ cup medium-bodied red wine
One 1½- to 2-pound 1½-inch-thick bone-in rib-eye steak
Heat a charcoal grill or a deep-ridged cast-iron grill pan over medium heat.
To make the maître d’hôtel butter, put the butter in a small bowl, add the minced thyme, parsley, and lemon juice, and mix together with a fork until well combined. Turn out onto a length of plastic wrap and, using the plastic to help you, form into a log about 1 inch thick. Chill to firm.
Tie the thyme sprigs together with kitchen twine to use as a basting brush.
Whisk together the lemon zest, salt and pepper to taste, olive oil, and red wine in a bowl. This will be your basting liquid.
When the cooking surface is hot, salt one side of the meat, put it salt side down on the grill, and cook, without moving it, for 5 minutes. Baste the top, then rotate the meat a quarter turn to form crosshatched grill marks. Baste the top again. Grill for 4 minutes, or until nicely marked, then salt the meat, flip it over, and repeat. When the internal temperature reads 120°F, the steak will be rare (it will rise a few degrees as it rests). If you prefer it a little more cooked, give it another minute or two.
Meanwhile, slice the chilled herb butter into disks.
When the meat is done to your taste, transfer it to a carving board, with some disks of herb butter beneath it and the rest on top. Let the meat rest for 5 minutes before carving. Serve with the buttery juices.
Grilled Short Ribs with Vinegar-Glazed Charred Endive
In Europe and America, short ribs are most often braised until the meat is very soft and falls off the bone at the slightest touch. Argentines like them grilled and more chewy but still well-done, with a salty, crunchy crust. I like the crust but I prefer my ribs medium-rare, which is quite easy to achieve on a chapa. Argentine cooks prefer cross-cut ribs, but when cut English style, the ribs make a dramatic carnivorous statement. When I prepared these in Bushwick, Brooklyn, in front of the popular restaurant Roberta’s, I dressed some endive leaves with vinaigrette and threw them on the very hot griddle for a minute so that they softened a bit. The bitter green was as piquant as Patagonian chimichurri and cut the fattiness of the meat perfectly. SERVES 4
4 pounds English-cut beef short ribs, trimmed of tough pieces of fell (papery membrane) and excess fat
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard, plus more for serving
¼ cup red wine vinegar
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
4 endives, leaves separated
Extra virgin olive oil for drizzling
Heat a chapa
or a large cast-iron griddle over medium-high heat. Pat the short ribs completely dry with paper towels. Season them on one side with salt and pepper. Place seasoned side down on the hot surface and cook, without moving the ribs, for about 8 minutes, or until a crunchy brown crust forms on the bottom. Sprinkle the other side with salt and pepper, turn, and brown, basting the tops with a bit of the fat if they look dry at any time. If there is a lot of fat, mop most of it up with paper towels—you want the ribs to sear, not fry.
Meanwhile, whisk together the mustard and 2 tablespoons of the vinegar in a large bowl, then gradually whisk in the olive oil. Season with salt and pepper. Add the endive and toss to coat with the dressing.
When the ribs are browned on all sides, check the temperature with an instant-read thermometer. If they are not yet at 140°F, move them to a cooler part of the chapa (or lower the heat under the griddle) and continue cooking them, turning every 5 minutes or so and checking the temperature, until they are done. Transfer them to a platter.
Deglaze the hot cooking surface with the remaining 2 tablespoons vinegar, scraping up the bits of beef and caramelized juices. If using a griddle, raise the heat to very high. Arrange the endive leaves rounded side up on the hot surface and cook for several minutes, until nicely charred. Use one or two wide spatulas to scrape up the endive and any remaining deglazing liquid and transfer to the platter with the ribs. Drizzle with olive oil and serve with mustard on the side.
Anytime, Anywhere
A warm, sunny late afternoon. The light throws a cloak of gold over the waning day. A glass of wine turns the scene even lovelier and conversation more congenial. These are the things that come to mind when you think of a perfect barbecue. Picture it, as I do now, in a meadow by a sun-dappled chestnut grove, with the sound of a burbling stream as background music. But such days should not be the only time you cook out of doors. Cold days, windy days, snowy days, rainy days, dark and cloudy days all have their charms and challenges to the builder of fires and the griller of food: a barren winter hillside with the sun lighting up a halo of windswept snow. A makeshift canopy by a lake shore as dark clouds, pregnant with rain, bear down. An abandoned churchyard in a high-desert ghost town, with the walls of the ruined chapel as a windbreak. A cobbled Brooklyn street, where I am sure Walt Whitman once came to stare at the waterfront. All perfectly suited to my traveling Patagonian grill. So, too, a Parisian cul-de-sac in misting rain in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. A parking lot by a Buenos Aires soccer field on a sweltering summer day. A friend’s yard on the shores of Lake Nahuel Huapi, near my Patagonian hometown.
Many chefs take pride and pleasure in making a meal with whatever ingredients are at hand. I am that way with fire and weather. Whatever weather the gods hurl my way, as long as I have wood or charcoal, a place to kindle a flame, and some way to expose ingredients to the heat of the fire, I know I can make a fine meal. You certainly don’t need an expensive barbecue grill that looks like the command console of a space station. A simple grate propped up with rocks over a fire on the ground is all that fifteen generations of gauchos have used to turn out their grilled masterpieces. Or cook with fires between flat rocks the way the Incas and their Nazca ancestors did for thousands of years. The Indians of Patagonia even grilled over fires in canoes! A sharpened sapling used to impale fresh-caught fish and then set next to a campfire fed Indians on the Guarani River for centuries in the high Andes. I never stop learning: a taxi driver who took me to the airport in Buenos Aires suggested wrapping a stuffed fish in brown paper and throwing it on the grill. I made a note to try it as soon as I could. The saying may be “Where there is smoke, there is fire,” but my heart tells me something else. Wherever and whenever you can make a fire, you can make a meal.
By the old iron bridge in Garzón. When you have a portable grill, you can cook anywhere.
Sliced Kidney Strips a la Plancha with Salsa Provenzal
The British are fond of what they call the “nasty bits,” or offal. In the United States, these are not as popular.
The most important thing when cooking kidneys is to make sure you give them ample space; if you crowd them, they will steam and become chewy. And cook them only briefly, just until they cease sizzling after you’ve added them to the pan. Then turn and, again, cook until the sizzle quiets down. This will give you a crunchy outside and a perfectly done interior. If you want them more well-done, transfer the kidneys to a colander to drain, then repeat the sizzle in a pan with fresh butter. For well-done, do it three times. The only thing you don’t want to do is to cook very long past the sizzle.
This is an adaptation of a recipe I made in the classic French kitchen at Le Grand Véfour, when I was young and still immersed in learning haute cuisine. Argentine salsa provenzal makes a lighter dish than the heavy cream-laden affair on traditional menus. Serve with Tortilla of Cast-Iron Potatoes, Spinach, and Sun-Dried Tomatoes (page 65). SERVES 4
1 pound veal kidneys, carefully trimmed of fat
6 tablespoons unsalted butter
Double recipe Salsa Provenzal (page 284)
Slice the kidneys across the lobes into long strips about ¼ inch thick; remove any remaining fat. Pat the strips dry with paper towels.
Heat a large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat and add half the butter. When it hisses and foams, add the kidney strips, without crowding them (cook in batches if necessary), and cook, without moving them, for just a minute or two, until they have just stopped sizzling and are browned on the bottom. Spoon some of the salsa over them, add the rest of the butter to the skillet, and turn the strips. They will be done in another minute or two.
Serve with the remaining salsa on the side.
Calves’ Liver a la Plancha with Pimentón Oil, Onions, and Crunchy Potatoes
Spooning pimentón oil over the calves’ liver on the chapa.
I find the mineralized flavor of liver particularly pleasing. Here I use an oil infused with sweet pimentón de Murcia for the liver and one with rosemary for the potatoes and onions. Liver and onions is a Venetian classic, and this dish, with the onions done in an horno, is my variation on that theme. SERVES 4
4 Idaho (baking) potatoes, scrubbed
5 tablespoons rosemary oil (see page 281), at room temperature
Course sea salt, such as Maldon or fleur de sel, and freshly ground black pepper
2 red onions, sliced
¼ cup Pimentón Oil (page 281)
1½ pounds calves’ liver, trimmed and sliced about
½ inch thick
Olive oil for brushing
Heat an horno or the oven to 375°F, with a rack in the lower third. Set two 8- or 9-inch cast-iron skillets on the rack to preheat for about 10 minutes.
Meanwhile, cover the potatoes with water in a large saucepan and bring to a boil. Reduce the heat to a low boil and cook gently until the potatoes are tender, about 15 minutes. Drain, pat dry on paper towels, and break into halves or quarters.
Remove one skillet from the oven, coat the bottom with some of the rosemary oil, and arrange the potatoes in it. They should pile up in an attractive heap. Drizzle with half the remaining rosemary oil and season with salt and pepper. Bake for about 15 minutes, or until the potatoes are golden brown and crunchy on the outside.
Meanwhile, toss the onion slices with the remaining rosemary oil to coat. Arrange in the second cast-iron skillet and cook in the oven for about 15 minutes, turning them over halfway through, until they are softened and nicely caramelized.
While the potatoes and onions are browning, spoon the pimentón oil onto a plate and turn the liver slices in it to coat both sides. Season well with coarse sea salt.
Heat a chapa or a large cast-iron griddle over medium-high heat for 10 minutes. Brush the surface with olive oil. When the oil shimmers, add the liver slices, spaced well apart (cook in batches if necessary), and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, until browned and crusty on the bottom. Baste the top with pimentón oil, turn the liver, and cook for another minute or so, until done to taste; it shou
ld still be quite pink inside.
Serve immediately, with the onions and potatoes.
Crunchy potatoes roasted in the oven.
Weeping Lamb
When I say this lamb weeps, I am talking about the way the fat drips onto the vegetables below and crisps them. This dish orginated in the Malvinas, the islands due east of Chubut in the South Atlantic. The British, who have claimed them, call them the Falklands, but no self-respecting Argentine would. “Las Malvinas son Argentinas,” we say. Although I have never attempted a conversation with a Malvinas lamb, the word “weeping” is particularly apt because I think the sheep are sad that they are not Argentine.
The lamb is first slow-roasted to render most of the fat, then set on a rack over the vegetables and crisped at higher heat. The vegetables pick up enough of the remaining fat to imbue them with richness and flavor. Serve with plenty of napkins! SERVES 4
12 garlic cloves, peeled
8 fresh thyme sprigs
4 pounds bone-in breast of lamb (also called lamb riblets), cut into 4 racks
Coarse salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 red bell peppers
4 large red potatoes, peeled
2 onions, sliced
2 leeks, white part only, sliced
2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Heat an horno or the oven to 325°F, with a rack in the lower third.
Cut 4 of the garlic cloves into slivers. Tear the thyme sprigs into small pieces. Cut small slits in the meat in between the bones and insert a garlic sliver and a piece of thyme into each. Reserve the extra thyme.
Season the lamb generously with salt and pepper and place fat side down in a large roasting pan. Cover tightly with foil and roast for 1½ hours, or until tender; check it every 20 or 30 minutes and pour off most of the fat as it accumulates.