Butchers, Nerves, and Golden Apples

I picked up the phone cautiously, knowing that it must be bad news. It was. “Darling,” mother said, “I couldn't’t find any stewing lamb so I got another cut.” I paused, took a couple deep breaths, and attempted to remain rational. “Ok, did you ask the butcher if it’s a good cut for slow cooking.”

“Oh, there wasn’t anyone there; no one at the meat counter.”

This bloody island, I thought. This bloody country! What we need is a return of the butcher shop; a good old fashioned little shop where the man knows his meat; a place where you can go each week, build up a relationship with the owner . . . chat about different cuts and the best techniques to cook each one. You become a regular; he—or quite possibly she (I’m thinking of making this my own mission)—finds special cuts you want, or bits of offal that no one else uses . . . .

I brought myself back from the pleasant fantasy of a world where every town has such a glorious establishment, back to the harsh reality of the moment. The supermarket and its infantile meat counter. Bah! “Right,” I replied to mother, having stoically suppressed my rant, “it will have to do, whatever it is.”

My annoyance at this inconvenience was magnified by the fact that I was considerable jumpy about this week’s feast. I was cooking for a chef. Well, to be precise, the man is an ex-chef, but still knows his stuff after having spent decades in the food industry. And now he was going to taste my cooking. Help!

I had decided on an old standby, a recipe I developed when a student budget forced me to become friends with the cheaper cuts of meat. The key to these bits of the animal is usually an infinitesimally slow simmer coupled with a good sauce. So my recipe called for some scraggy bits of stewing lamb, slowly cooked in stock, and then plunked into a rich reduction of tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It was a delicious and relatively foolproof production—ideal for this nerve wracking occasion. We would eat it on a bed of couscous and beside a leafy green salad. It would be simple, unpretentious, and stress-free. Or so I’d hoped.

The thing about cooking, you see, is that there are so many factors, so many interlocking pieces. Pull one of these away and the whole structure can come topping down. There are ingredients, timing, kitchen equipment, a neurotic cook—all manner of pieces that can throw the whole meal out of whack. One thing that I’m learning, throughout this project, is the dynamism and creativity needed to become a good cook. I took a few more deep breaths and decided not to worry. Kitchen vanity is not a virtue, I told myself. Neither is neurosis.

My saintliness was rewarded when mother returned with the meat, which I instantly grabbed and scrutinized. It wasn’t quite the cut I’d expected but near enough. Scraggy and worked enough to suit a slow simmer. And after that hiccup the afternoon passed in exactly the meandering, stress-free way I had imagined. I put on some flamenco music, cut the meat into chunks, browned it in some oil over a high heat, covered it in stock and then left it alone for a good four hours. And in the meantime there was little else for me to do besides make the tart tartin.

This too I chose for its dual qualities of reliability and scrumptiousness. It is a rich, caramelized apple tart, cooked on the stove in a skillet, then covered in pastry and finished in a medium hot oven. It has always struck me as a typically French way of cooking—clever and practical with excessively elegant results. You are cooking the tart upside down. So if done well, this method keeps the pastry from getting soggy while allowing you to conjure up a gloriously juicy and succulent dessert. Plus, cooking the apples in a skillet on the stove does a fantastic job of caramelizing the sugars. And finally when you flip the tart for the table, you are invariably faced with a glossy golden disc of fruit. It never fails. Trust me; you have this promise from someone who is spectacularly clumsy in the kitchen.

The food was good. Despite finding my taste buds in hypercritical mode: Are the tomatoes overwhelming? Does the saffron is have enough presence? Should I have added that final slosh of vermouth?

Splashing alcohol into a dish is always my distressed response when the flavors don't seem quite right. Surely a slosh of booze will harmonize it all, the thinking goes. Not very graceful, I’ll admit, but it sooths my worries all the same.


So here’s my recipe for slowly simmered lamb in tomatoes, saffron, and cream. It is provided in the hopes that it may be a soothing solution for kitchen nerves. And if you find yourself fussing about flavors, you can always add splash of vermouth near the end. I’m not sure if t really helps but hey, there’s a lot to be said for the placebo effect.

1 pound of lamb stew meat, cut into chunks
A little olive oil
1 bay leaf
About 1 quart chicken stock
Splash of cream
1 large can or jar of crushed tomatoes
A pinch of saffron stems
Some cream
Cholula or other hot sauce (Shhh . . . don’t tell)
Vermouth (optional)

Place a large, heavy-based pot over a fierce heat until very hot. Add a little oil to coat the pan and then quickly brown the stew meat on all sides (about 30 seconds total). Lower the flame to the lowest heat possible—really, the absolute lowest possible on your stove—and add enough chicken stock to cover well. Add the bay leaf and cover. The meat should be barely simmering, quivering ever so gently. It is vitally important, after the brief browning, not to cook the meat too quickly and it is virtually impossible to cook it too slowly. Allow the meat to quiver for about 3 and ½ hours until all delicate, melty, and tender.

Remove the lamb and cover to keep warm. Drain off most of the liquid, leaving about an inch in the pan. Remove the bay leaf, add the crushed tomatoes, and raise the heat to a boil. Add the saffron and allow the mixture to reduce and thicken to a rich sauce. (For a spicy version add a few shakes of a good quality hot sauce, such as Cholula. That’s totally cheating I know, but Cholula is what I used in a pinch and it worked rather well). Finally turn the heat down a bit and mix in a little cream to thicken and silken the sauce. Season to taste as necessary. Just before serving, return the meat to the pot. This dish is equally superb when served with either a mound of fluffy mashed potatoes, rice, or some herby couscous.