Today We Have The Naming of Parts

(Duck meal #2 Click here for more info.)

There is a good part of cooking that can only be described as marketing. How a dish tastes is only part of the experience of eating it. It must smell good, and just as importantly, look appealing. I’m sure you all know this – we instinctively want to eat things that look and smell fresh, plump, and healthy; it’s a survival tactic. Beyond all of this, however, cooking involves another sense: sound.

I’m not simply talking about the sounds of cooking, though these can be incredibly appetite-inducing. Imagine, for example, the crackling-tearing sound a hot loaf of woodfired bread makes when you tear a chewy end off, or the sizzle of fried eggs in butter, or the soft, sighing hiss a perfect fire-roasted marshmallow makes as it cools, just before you pop it into your mouth.

It is another type of sound I’m grappling with today; the dish description. This, more than presentation or smell or taste, is most akin to marketing. For example, I love to cook a Moorish Spanish chicken dish with wine, vinegar, olives, capers, and prunes. It is so damn tasty I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t like it, but when I tell people about it I always make sure I don’t mention the prunes. Why? Prunes are bad press, and people won’t even try the dish.

The story is much the same in commercial cookery. Chefs struggle with the wording of dishes on their menus to the point of obsession. It’s tempting to dismiss this practice as an extension of the control freak syndrome that possesses so many chefs, but the truth is it’s good business. A former head chef of mine changed one word in the description of a dish that came from my section – the generic “clam” to the Italian word for the same “vongole” – and orders for the dish doubled in one night. Perhaps in my case “prunes” could be “dried fruits.”

One might consider good menu writing an art. A well-worded menu should leave the customer unable to choose between the equally delicious-sounding dishes. It is a skill I have yet to master. I can’t tell you, for instance, why my special served with “grilled sourdough” didn’t sell but the same special served with “toasted baguette” flew out of the kitchen.

I also can’t tell you what else you might call this next dish, one suffering badly from poor naming. The “neck” bit turns people off, but I don’t know how else to describe a sausage made from the deliciously crispy skin of a duck’s neck. Any suggestions?



Duck Neck and Leek Sausage with Puy Lentils

1 duck breast skin on
1 duck neck, skin on
½ leek, fine slice
1 clove garlic, cracked
1 sprig thyme
2 tbsp rendered duck fat
pinch nutmeg
pinch fennel seeds
enough additional duck fat for poaching

Holding the exposed bone of the duck neck, gently pull the skin off downwards, taking care not to rip it. You should be left with an inside-out tube of duck skin; turn it right-side-out and set aside. In a grinder or food processor mince the duck breast, skin included, being sure that it stays cool at all times. Place in refrigerator. In a small pan sauté the leeks, thyme, and garlic in the duck fat until the leeks are soft and sweet. Cool with the fat; remove the thyme and garlic.

Mix the duck meat with the cold leeks, the nutmeg, and fennel seeds. Season. To test the flavor cook a teaspoon sized dollop of the mixture in a pan over medium heat and taste. Adjust the seasoning as needed. Using a piece of butchers twine tie the thin end of the duck neck skin shut. Using your hands or a piping bag fill the neck with the meat mixture, leaving enough room to tie the top shut.

Once you have formed the sausage, melt enough duck fat to cover the sausage in a small pot. Over low to medium heat poach the sausage (careful not to let it get to hot and fry) until it feels quite firm. Transfer sausage to a clean container and completely cover with warm fat. Allow to cool and then place in the refrigerator overnight or up to a couple of weeks.

To serve the sausage, heat oven to 180ºC (350ºF). Retrieve sausage from the cold fat and, in a pan on medium heat, gently fry on all sides until golden brown. Transfer to oven and roast 5-10 minuets, until it is hot in the center. Slice into medallions and serve on lentils with a tablespoon of hot duck jus.



Lentils

1 small carrot, small dice
1 stalk celery, small dice
1 small brown onion, fine dice
1 clove garlic, peeled and cracked
100 g bacon, small dice
1 C puy lentils
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme
3-4 cups stock or water, near boiling
olive oil

In a medium pot over low heat sweat diced bacon in a touch of olive oil. When the fat in the spec begins to melt, increase the heat and add the chopped vegetables and garlic. When the carrots just begin to soften, add the lentils and the herbs and toast along with the spec and veg for a couple of minuets. Add the stock a bit at a time and simmer, as if making risotto, until lentils are soft, but still hold their shape. They should have a bit of bite and most or all of the stock should have been absorbed.

Duck Jus

bones from 1 duck
1 carrot, large chop
1 brown onion, large chop
1 celery, large chop
1 clove garlic
1 bay
1 sprig thyme
100ml red wine

In a hot oven roast the bones and vegetables until they are dark brown. Transfer these to a pot large enough to hold everything and fill with water. Pour red wine into roasting pan and, over medium heat, boil and scrape all the bits stuck to the pan. Pour this into the stock. Bring to a boil, skimming any fat or scum that rises to the top, and then simmer for at least 4 hours, topping up pot as needed. Strain stock, discarding solids. Return to pot and boil until it is reduced to a thick glaze. You’ll end up with about 4 tablespoons of concentrated duck jus.

Duck Four Ways

I bought a duck. Not a live duck, as I have nowhere to house it (though a ready supply of duck eggs would be nice) but a lovely whole Muscovy from my local butcher. I wasn’t out to buy a duck, and I don’t usually go for the impulse buy, but it looked so good. Now, that my newfound friend and I are home, I’ve got to figure out what to do with it.

As a chef, I love duck. The only animal more versatile in the kitchen is the pig (insert choir of angels signing triumphant “Aaaaaaaaaaaa” here). Anyway, what to do with one duck? Roast duck breast? Confit leg? Duck prosciutto? Pot roast? Duck ragout? Duck a l'orange? Peking duck pancakes? Duck sausages? Pressed duck?

Chefs share a greater burden of a certain moral responsibility that belongs to all of us, that being minimizing the wasting of food. I feel this especially acutely when working with meat. I cannot allow that after rearing an animal, feeding it, transporting it, butchering it, hanging the meat, packaging it, and shipping it to market that it is in any way acceptable to squander even the smallest bit. I can understand that the lengthy process from farm to plate may disassociate our steak from a cow, but they are one in the same, and you owe it to the animal to think of this and act accordingly.

Bearing this in mind, I decided to turn my duck into four meals, being sure that I wasted as little a possible in the process. I decided on what four meals I would make and set about breaking the duck down – two breasts, two legs, and the ‘frame’ or carcass (the butcher evidently kept all the delicious offal, the bastard). As three of the four meals require some lead time – two or three days – I started with the most simple. I’ll feature the remainder of these meals as I eat them over the next few posts.




Mulled Duck Ragout with Semolina Gnocchi

1 large duck breast, skin on
1 carrot, peeled and diced
1 brown onion, fine dice
1 shallot, fine dice
1 clove garlic, peeled and cracked
100 g swiss brown mushrooms (Portabello), quartered
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme
1 cinnamon quill
pinch mace
2 strips orange peel, pith removed
2 tbsp beef jus or 2 cups beef stock
1 cup red wine

Preheat oven to 160ºC (320ºF) Salt and pepper the both sides of the duck breast. Add a touch of oil to a heavy-bottomed pan just large enough to fit the breast on low heat and then place the breast skin side down. Allow to cook slowly, rendering out the duck fat, until the skin is dark and beginning to crisp. Flip, increase heat to medium, and brown the flesh side. Remove from pan. Drain half of the duck fat from the pan and reserve. Using the fat left in the pan, gently sauté the carrot, onion, shallot, garlic, bay, thyme, cinnamon and mace until the vegetables begin to soften and color. Remove from pan. Add reserved duck fat, increase heat to high and sauté the mushrooms. Remove pan from heat.

Return all the cooked ingredients to the pan and add either jus or stock, the wine, orange peel, and enough cold water to cover the breast. Cover the pan with a tight-fitting lid and place in oven. Braise until the breast is tender and falling apart 1.5 – 2.5 hours.

Remove from oven, strain out braising liquid and reduce this by ⅔, or until the sauce is thick and sticky. Meanwhile remove skin from breast and discard. Shred flesh into large chunks and mix with the braised vegetables – being sure to remove the orange peel and the cinnamon quill. Stir meat mixture into the reduced sauce, add a handful of peas and serve over sautéed gnocchi or cooked pasta.

Look, gnocchi deserve their own post. I’ll walk you through it sometime soon. Ok?

Cabbages and Kings

Every year there is so much talk of the return of spring vegetables; asparagus and beans and new potatoes. These are followed closely by the onslaught of summer peaches and mangoes and sun-ripened tomatoes. Then autumn brings promise of icy-crisp apples and buttery pears, pumpkins and corn. Finally, comes winter.

What do we look forward to in winter? It is a season of cold storage produce; three months when fallow fields mean shallow choices at the market. Perhaps the famous line should have been “the winter of our culinary discontent.”

It’s not all bleak. There are mandarins, I suppose, as well as other citrus. Oh, and rhubarb, silverbeet, and leeks. Then there are Brussels sprouts and broccoli and cabbage and cauliflower. And, please don’t forget, my favorite, the root vegetables.

Carrots and parsnips and rutabaga and turnips and potatoes and beets and yams, each appearing in multiple varieties, all beg to be the starchy foundation upon which you might build a generous winter’s meal. Who amongst us doesn’t like to swirl a mound of mashed potatoes into an Irish stew? What would a Sunday roast be without honeyed carrots?

I so look forward to this time of year, when slow roasts and soups and braises fit the wintry clime. I do, however, grow a bit tired of the continuous barrage of heavy foods. That’s when I make the dish below. It draws out – nay, relies upon – the earthy sweetness of winter vegetables, and, though this risotto-style pasta dish forms its own starchy sauce, the clean flavors and simplicity strike a perfect balance between hearty and refreshing.



Cavatappi with Winter Root Vegetables

2 cups cavatappi or other similar pasta
4 cups chicken or vegetable stock
1 cup white wine
1 carrot, peeled, large dice
1 parsnip, peeled, cored, large dice
1 swede (rutabaga) peeled, large dice
1 brown onion, fine dice
1 tbsp chopped parsley
¼ cup parmesan cheese

Heat stock to near boiling in a small pot and keep warm on low flame. In a large pot, sauté the onion in a little olive oil until it is soft and translucent, but not browned. Add uncooked pasta and toss to coat with oil. Add white wine and bring to a boil, simmer until all the wine has been absorbed. Add the carrots and enough stock to not quite cover the top of the pasta. Again simmer until all the liquid has been absorbed, stirring frequently. Repeat this process until the noodles are nearly cooked.

When you judge the noodles to need one or two more additions of stock, add the parsnips and rutabaga, as these take much less time to cook than the carrots.

When the pasta is cooked it should be soft yet firm and the root vegetables should be much the same. The excess starch from the pasta will form a deliciously satisfying sauce. Season and finish with parsley and parmesan.

As an afterthought, it is worth mentioning that Shakespeare’s King Richard III does not in fact have the seasonal blues. He opens the eponymous play with the following “Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this son of York.” In other words, this former winter is now made summer and, while I’m not saying carrots and their subterranean brethren will change the weather, they sure make the cold easier to bear.

Preserving a Way of Life

I know I’ve spoken about poverty food before, of how the great cuisines of the world grew out of the necessity of scarcity. I do tend to go on about the considerable skill involved in making every bit of available foodstuffs not only edible but, in fact, tasty – a collective ability formed over thousands of years of practice. Now, all that knowledge is slipping away.

I am fascinated by the idea that the industrialization of the food supply chain has, for those of us in the western world, nearly eliminated the need to know anything about the production of our food. How many of us, for example, know how to break down a whole animal into its various mussel groups and cuts? Make cheese? Dry fruits? Mill grain? Is there any other body of knowledge that we let disappear so willingly?

It wasn’t so long ago that basic food preparation and preservation know-how was common; it was a fundamental survival skill. After the Second World War there was a concerted effort on the parts of canned food manufacturers to portray home-preserved foods as unsafe. As a result of their successful campaign, people all over the western world put down their mason jars and dug in to the dinner-from-cans-and-boxes era that most of us grew up in. Now some people wouldn’t know how to shell a pea much less remove the pinbones from a whole cod.

There are other side effects too, ones which we are only now collectively beginning to address. Eating foods when they are in season, once the only option, has only recently become a realistic alternative. Besides, overcooked caned green beans are always in season, right? There are transport costs to consider as well, both monetary and environmental, in delivering these foods, suspended in tepid vegetable water, sometimes from the other side of the globe.

I realize I am in danger of contradicting myself here, so let me clarify something: preserving food, and eating preserved food, is not inherently bad. Neither is eating food out of season. In fact, in a food climate where one can buy strawberries year round or frozen corn every day of the year, it is difficult to see why we should be interested in these ancient arts of survival. The simple reason we need to hold on to these skills lies in the outcome.

There is a special joy in opening a jar of your own white peach preserves on a winter morning to stir into your porridge. They glow, as if you somehow managed to trap, with their gentle blush and honey sweet aroma, a part of the summer day on which you preserved hem. Conversely, there is a great magic in the autumn-cool smoothness of cinnamon scented applesauce when it accompanies barbequed pork on a sunlight-lingering summer night.

My point? Commercial canned foods bad. Home-preserved food good. Now run along to your local farmer’s market, buy some local produce, find your grandmother’s favorite cookbook (bound to be full of recipes for jams, preserves, pickles, and chutneys), and get to work.

Now, I know I called making preserves an ancient survival skill, but no one has ever said, in the history of mankind: “Thank god I know how to make red onion marmalade. It may have just saved my life.”

Nevertheless, with its ghost of rosewater flavor and savory-sweet pucnhes, this onion marmalade goes well with cheese and I love it with pâté. Survival skill? No. Dinner party survival skill? Maybe.

Red Onion Marmalade



4 red onions, peeled and sliced thinly
1 lemon juice and pips (in a small muslin bag or tea strainer)
sugar

Place the onions, the lemon juice, and the pips in a stainless steel pot and fill with water until it is just level with, but does not cover the onions. Bring to a boil, reduce heat and simmer until the onions are soft – about 20 minuets. Cool overnight.

Weigh the onions and water. To this add ¾ of their weight in sugar. Return to a boil and cook until it reaches between 105ºC and 110ºC (220ºF – 230ºF). Remove pips, pour into sterile jars and seal.

As most of the pectin in onions in is the skins, this will probably not set like a traditional jam, but will be thick and syrupy.

Makes about 4 cups.

On Swimming Upstream

There is a trend in professional cooking which leans away from complex kitchen methodology. Escoffier is no longer the final word, but instead has become the protector of a, if not already dead, dying ideal. Mind you the alternative is not fast food, but rather an appreciation of good ingredients, minimally altered by preparation and cooking. Framed this way it’s hard to mount a contrary argument, though raw-food extremists offer some leverage, the bastards.

My dislike for raw-food aside, I have a confession to make: I like complications. I want a recipe with twenty-odd ingredients and seventeen steps. I want to spend a week salting, three hours smoking, two months hanging, all for one component to a meal completely consumed in less than ten minuets. It’s not just the challenge, though I admit I do enjoy that aspect; I want not only to cook but to really cook.

To paraphrase one of my former head chefs: “Any grill-monkey can make a steak taste good; it already is good. But to take brisket, cheek, oxtail, trotters, secondary cuts and turn them into something not only edible but delicious, memorable, that takes skill, and patience, and time, and time, and time.”

The winter solstice has just passed here in the southern hemisphere and, while short on daylight, I find myself indoors with the time for some real cooking.



Spiced Braised Lamb Shanks with Smoky Lentils

2 lamb shanks
1 carrot, large chunks
I brown onion, quartered
1 stalk celery, large chunks
1 clove garlic, peeled, whole
½ c white wine
1 tbsp brandy
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme
1/8th tsp cinnamon
1/8th tsp cumin
1 pinch chili flakes
1 tsp liquid malt
2 cups veal stock (or water)
salt and pepper
olive oil
zest of one lemon
3 sprigs parsley, leaves only, chopped

Generously season lamb shanks. On high heat, in a heavy-bottomed pot large enough to hold all ingredients, use the olive oil to brown shanks on all sides. Remove from pot. Reduce heat to medium and cook vegetables until they begin to soften and brown. Remove from pot and immediately add wine and brandy. Reduce to a glaze, scraping the bottom with a wooden spoon to loosen tasty meat bits. Return meat and veg to the pot and then add the herbs and spices, the malt, and then cover with stock. If the stock does not cover at least ⅔ of the meat, add water.

Cover tightly with a lid or foil and braise in a 160ºC ( 320ºF) oven for 2-3 hours, checking every 20 min after the first hour and a half, until the meat is very tender, but not quite falling off the bone.

Remove half of the braising liquid to a small pot. Over medium heat, reduce by ⅔, skimming any fat or scum that rises to the surface.

Serve the warm shanks on lentils (below), sauced with reduced brazing liquid, topped with a gremolata made of chopped parsley and lemon zest.


Smoky Lentils

1 small carrot, small dice
1 stalk celery, small dice
1 small brown onion, fine dice
1 clove garlic, peeled and cracked
200 g spec, small dice
1 C green or brown lentils
1 bay leaf
1 sprig thyme
3-4 cups stock or water, near boiling
olive oil



In a medium pot over low heat sweat diced spec in a touch of olive oil. When the fat in the spec begins to melt, increase the heat and add the chopped vegetables and garlic. When the carrots just begin to soften, add the lentils and the herbs and toast along with the spec and veg for a couple of minuets. Add the stock and simmer, covered, until lentils are soft, but still hold their shape. They should have a bit of bite and most or all of the stock should have been absorbed. Moisten with some of the unreduced lamb braising liquid before serving.