Sunday Stew, Slow and Simple

It doesn’t take a particularly logical train of thought to get me started on a new cooking project. But, it is often a complicated path. Here’s a typical chain of events:

• I’m sitting in a hotel in Middlebury, Vermont last weekend drinking coffee and watching Tyler Florence on the Food Network. He’s whipping up his “ultimate” version of coq au vin. He adds an entire bottle of red wine to chicken and pearl onions that is simmering in a glossy-red Dutch oven. I’m intrigued, but it’s only breakfast time.
• On New Year’s Day, I note that I’ve still got a couple of coupons left for that department store whose name begins with an “M.” I check the web site and discover a kick-ass sale of kitchenware by the Doyenne of Domesticity – whose name begins with “M” – including fifty-percent-off a shiny, fire-engine red Dutch oven. Before the New Year is several hours old, I am the proud owner of a Dutch oven, and I’ve saved a bundle. Not a bad way to start off 2008.
• On Thursday, I’m giving serious thought to how I will use that last remaining bottle of delicious Bordeaux from Christmas Day.
• On Saturday morning, I’m lounging in bed. I think I’ve finally licked my chronic sleeping issues. All it took was a rather pricy purchase of a 1-inch thick foam mat that now sits atop my regular mattress. I’m feeling well-rested, and just a little lazy. Since I’m usually thinking about food, the question rolls through my head, “What shall I cook this weekend? Maybe something simple and slow in the Dutch oven? Something easy that cooks on its own?” I wonder where I might research more about braising and stew and I remember “The Art of Simple Food” by Alice Waters, which sits in the kitchen, but I’ve not had a chance to read. Sure enough, there is a section on braising and stews and an inviting recipe for Beef Stew. One week into this journey, it’s beginning to feel like destiny.

• About half of the morning is spent at Whole Foods, shopping for the best ingredients I can find. I think I blow a week’s worth of grocery money, but the chunks of boneless beef chuck look good enough to grace the cover of Saveur magazine. I season the beef with salt and pepper and put it into the refrigerator, ready to hit the ground running on Sunday, creating a classic beef stew.
  
  Sounds simple, right?

Along the way, I’ve hit a slight snag. The truth is, I’m a bit of a novice with Dutch ovens, and the optimal cooking techniques. Braise or stew? Which is it?

“The Elements of Cooking” by Michael Ruhlman offers some basics on braising. He calls it a “combination cooking method” of dry heat, in which meat is seared in very hot fat, followed by moist heat, where the meat is simmered in liquid at a very low temperature, but never a boil. Braising works well with cuts of meat that that contain connective tissue, which breaks down during the cooking process and thickens the sauce. Stew, on the other hand, is primarily the moist heat method, but the meat is cut into smaller pieces, a greater amount of liquid is used, and you don’t always sear the meat, although it will boost the flavor if you do. The Dutch oven is constructed of cast iron, so it conducts heat evenly and the tight-fitting lid keeps steam from escaping so the long, slow cooking method results in tender meat and luscious thick sauce.
There appears to be some controversy over techniques. Harold McGee is on record that the optimal braise starts at a temperature of 200 degrees F and is increased to 250 degrees F after two hours. Other’s suggest higher temperatures.

This is all becoming complicated, so I stick to Alice Waters’ directions. The beef stew recipe looks a bit like a cross between a braise and a stew. She recommends beef chuck because the connective tissue and fat offers more flavor.

First, bacon is browned in a pan. Then, the chunks of beef are browned in the bacon fat.

Aromatic vegetables – onions, carrots, and thyme, savory and parsley – are then browned just slightly before being added to the meat in the Dutch oven. The pan drippings are deglazed with brandy and the Bordeaux. Organic fire-roasted tomatoes, chopped garlic and beef stock are added to the pot along with the wine reduction.

Essentially what I’ve done is layered one flavor on top of another. The mixture is topped with a long strip of orange zest. I particularly like the fact that I can cover the pot and place it untouched and unattended in a 325 degree F oven for three hours.

The method is sheer simplicity, and the aroma is sheer torture. I keep glancing at the clock to see how soon it is until dinner. The house is fragrant with savory meat, rich wine, herbs, garlic and citrus. I’m about to loose my mind, and my appetite is on a rampage.

Time is up, and I open the lid. The odyssey of braising, stews and a lip-stick red Dutch oven in search of a home is complete. Simple, however, is a misnomer.

The mahogany sauce looks like satin, and the onions have practically melted. The beef is succulent and smoky, the carrots tender, and the orange zest adds a sweet, fresh note. The stew … uh, braise … is served atop toasted bread rubbed with garlic. Who needs fussy, complicated cuisine?

The best part is the leftovers. I can almost bet the beef stew will taste even better tomorrow, and I won’t have to cook for several days.

What could be simpler?

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

The Great Pretender – Corn Bread Tamale Pie:

It is holiday baking day and the kitchen is in an uproar. The live Handel broadcast on the radio does little to mask the chaos. Sheet pans and mixing bowls are scattered about, and the sink is full. Hallelujah!

I’ve been surrounded by food all day, but I’m already thinking about Sunday Supper. I’ve made my selection on page 102 of the Joy of Cooking, and it’s a little touch of Mexico right here in suburban Long Island – Corn Bread Tamale Pie.

While I might try to convince myself that supper will be like a sojourn South of the Border, there’s actually nothing authentic about Corn Bread Tamale Pie. The Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America says it is part of the group of American foods that were “invented outside the ethnic communities they refer to.”

The Food Timeline quotes the Encyclopedia of American Food and Drink as saying that Captain John Smith made reference to a tamale-style dish in 1612 and that the term Tamale Pie first appeared in 1911. Perhaps this recipe is a distant cousin of the “hot tamale” which the Oxford Encyclopedia describes as a popular southern street snack of the late 19th and early 20th century, made with larded cornmeal. Mexican American women were said to make hot tamales in large quantities months before festivals such as Christmas. Heck, it’s the holiday season. That’s all the connection I need!

Certainly casseroles of this type continue to arouse appetites and inspire great interest. The December 2006 issue of Saveur has a lip-smacking feature on the history of casseroles which features a recipe for Tamale Pie (aptly described as an “American classic”) along with such chic suburban suppers as Tuna-Noodle Casserole and Chicken Divan. Joy of Cooking does its share of gushing on all aspects of savory pies, and extols the virtues of topping a mixture of meat and vegetables with a variety of crusts, including homemade biscuit dough.

Scanning the recipe, I can see its attributes immediately. The preparation takes no time, and many of the ingredients are at hand in the pantry. Browning ground beef and onion is the first step, so this is a job for the venerable Sunbeam Electric Frying Pan. No suburban cook should be without one. I brown the beef and onions and toss in black beans, corn, tomato sauce, chili powder and cumin. There’s very little fat, and the dish is packed with fiber. The topper is a thick paste of cornmeal, egg and milk. I stare into the oven and watch as the molten bean sauce creates fissures and eruptions across the rugged topography of the cornbread topping.

Finally, the moment of truth, and I dip a large spoon into the golden crust. The ragu of black beans and corn looks a ladle-full of colorful confetti and the cumin and chili powder does the rumba with the sunny yellow goodness of the cornbread. Who needs authentic Southwestern cuisine? I can get that any night in New York City. I may still have a long way to go before I get to Mexico, but Corn Bread Tamale pie spices up Sunday night supper with the flair of a fiesta! Maracas for everyone!

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

A Rare Bit of Welsh Cookery:

It’s time for Sunday Supper at the end of a long holiday weekend. My inclination is to avoid heavy casseroles or roasts, and I land on page 112 of the “Joy of Cooking” where my eyes scan a familiar title – “Welsh Rarebit.”

“Is it Rarebit, or Rabbit?” I ask aloud.

It is perhaps one of the great culinary riddles of all time. And, Mrs. Rombaurer does little to illuminate the question. She simple puts her foot down, squarely on the kitchen floor, and tells us in the recipe notes, “It is called rarebit. Rabbit is something else.”

But I won’t be deterred. Maybe it is simply the difference between the vegetarian and meat version of the same dish? Before I eat, I must know.

There is quite a bit to learn about this hopping good dish which is basically melted cheese over toast. Alan Davidson's “The Oxford Companion to Food” says the term “rabbit” was found in print as early as 1725, with the term “welsh rarebit” appearing 60 years after. Davidson also notes that 18th century cookbook author Hannah Glass offered four different recipes in her 1747 book, The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, including Scotch-Rabbit, Welsh-Rabbit, and two for English-Rabbit which use ingredients like mustard and red wine. I also find some speculation that the name links back to some derogatory remarks about the Welsh people, which doesn’t seem right when you’re talking about good food.

While the accuracy of Wikipedia can at times be questionable, there’s a ripping good story about people getting nightmares from eating too much Welsh Rarebit and the logical connections are made to other relatives in the bread and cheese category including Croque Madame, Croque Monsieur and the good old American grilled cheese sandwich. Cook UK says that “Caws Pobi” is the name of the recipe in the Welsh language, which means “lightly cooked” or rare “small portion” or bit.

I find various debates over the types of cheese to use and aged cheddar seems to emerge as the clear favorite. Shredded cheddar cheese in plastic bags is viewed with considerable scorn, particularly where Welsh Rarebit is concerned.

Food historian Alice Ross provides some alternative views writing in the May 2000 edition of Journal of Antiques & Collectibles, and says that cheese and bread were staples in the English diet. Ross suggests that the dish migrated to American and took on many names and variations, but was eventually renamed “rarebit” in the late 1800s when the “chaffing dish” era arrived and a more upscale name was needed.

I know one thing. After several days of feasting I want something fast and this recipe will be ready to eat, quick like a bunny. I cut several slices of whole grain bread and toast it in the oven. I set up a double boiler and heat melted butter and McSorley’s Ale together. A deep, nutty aroma rises from the pot. I melt handfuls of aged cheddar in the broth and then quickly add a beaten egg, Worcestershire sauce, dried mustard, curry powder, paprika and red pepper. It all melts into a lovely golden orange concoction that pours over the toast like an afternoon sunset.

The aficionados are in agreement on one point – you must eat Welsh Rarebit hot. So I do. There are rich, savory flavors of ripened cheese, yeast, toasted whole grain and tangy ale. It is like fondue, but more rustic and elemental.

The Welsh Rarebit is gone faster than a magician might pull a rabbit out of a hat. And I make sure the bowl is licked clean.

Now, about those rumors of nightmares …

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Somewhere Beyond the Sea:

I am somewhat tentative as I approach Sunday Supper this evening. Over at “Baking and Books,” Ari is churning up delicious homemade coconut ice cream. On duty in her "Test Kitchen," Veronica is exploring the art of white truffles and risotto.

Me? I’m about to prepare “Fish Loaf” from page 106 of the 75th Anniversary Edition of “Joy of Cooking.” While my colleagues are investigating new culinary frontiers, I’m wallowing in comfort food. I’m hoping my reputation doesn’t suffer much. This recipe uses pouch tuna. Shocking!

With the hopes of salvaging my culinary self-respect, I set out in search of more information about a dish that probably has the most unimaginative, least appealing name ever created in the history of food.

Frankly, I’d never heard of Fish Loaf. We were all about Meat Loaf growing up in suburban Long Island, and rarely did anyone stray from the standard menu items or ingredients. Nobody wants to be a fish out of water in the suburbs.

So, I take a deep dive into the virtual world and make a few interesting discoveries. I find a recipe for Gefilte Fish Loaf, which is often made for Passover. It is low in fat and low in calories. There are numerous Salmon Loaf recipes attempting to swim upstream, and I learn that in the Italian town of San Remo on the Mediterranean, one can find a dish called “Pan Pesce.” Short of the fancy name, and a touch of European cache, the ingredients are almost identical to the recipe I have in hand. I even find a few versions of a Caribbean-style fish loaf. And, of course, one can’t miss the potential culinary connection to crab cakes, although most of us consider them to be far more upscale. No matter the culture or region of the world, all of the recipes I uncover involve flaked fish, chopped aromatic vegetables, egg, bread crumbs and seasonings.

Yet, I am just at the start of my journey to the bottom of the sea. I gather the ingredients and begin the preparation. The elements are simple: albacore tuna, bread crumbs, chopped celery and onion, egg, lemon juice, red pepper sauce and basil. I combine it all in a food processor, so the preparation couldn’t be easier. Then, I press it into a loaf pan. When all the ingredients are combined it smells suspiciously like a fresh tuna salad sandwich, and as it bakes and that salty smell of the sea fills the air, I am flashing back to the tuna casseroles of my youth.

So, is Fish Loaf seaworthy, you may ask? I whip up the recommended side of Horseradish Cream – which is foreshadowed in some of the Gefilte Fish recipes – and is basically whipped cream infused with sharp horseradish and tangy lemon juice. What could be better than that? I garnish the loaf with paper-thin lemon slices, dill, and a few shrimp because every chef must add his own creative flair. It’s starting to look like something that might be served at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade. The taste is comforting, but actually somewhat mild, bordering on the bland. The loaf doesn’t hold its shape for very long and rapidly dissolves into a kind of seafood hash. But, add a dollop of that Horseradish Cream and the tides shift. When that razor-sharp horseradish and sweet fluffy cream collides with the briny tuna, get ready for a tidal wave of flavor.

My suggestion is this. When they re-issue the 80th Anniversary Edition of the “Joy of Cooking” they should rename this dish “Neptune’s Fantasy.” It will get far more respect that way.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

In Search of Johnny Marzetti

It’s a culinary mystery worthy of Sue Grafton’s, Kinsey Milhone. Who was Johnny Marzetti?

There was absolutely no evidence that he’d been a great chef or even attended culinary school, yet Johnny has the distinction of the lead position in the old/new “Joy of Cooking’s” Brunch, Lunch, and Supper Dishes chapter – Johnny Marzetti Spaghetti Pie. Hardly gourmet fare, but certainly worthy of a Sunday Supper.

But, who was Johnny Marzetti?

I didn’t have much to go on – a name, a recipe and a town in the midwest. The author’s note in “Joy” says this pasta casserole was made famous at Marzetti’s restaurant in Columbus, Ohio.

I put my Internet browser on overdrive and managed to track down a few leads. The trail takes me to a clipping in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette which confirms that the casserole was create in the 1920’s by the owner of Marzetti’s and named for his brother Johnny.

There are other connections. Marzetti’s, located in downtown Columbus, was a hang-out for writer James Thurber and his newspaper cronies. It’s not clear when it was demolished, but by 1981, a reference in the New York Times indicates that Marzetti’s had given way to a fast-food store. I even surface a sepia postcard of Marzetti’s dining room, available for $5.00 on EBay. It looked like a respectable establishment with crisp white table cloths and comfortable chairs.

I push further. The name evokes fond memories from hungry baby boomers, mostly in middle-America, where folks recall eating “Marzetti” at lunch in the school cafeteria. Others deem it “quasi-Italian” but nobody really seems to mind. There are multiple versions of the recipe, including one made with turkey which was clearly designed to use up Thanksgiving leftovers. The Bob Evans restaurant appears to have offered Johnny Marzetti on the menu in the not-to-distant past, and I uncovered a gourmet shop that promotes their version of Marzetti as perfect for a tailgate picnic. There’s even a passing reference in “The Oxford Encyclopedia of Food and Drink in America.” Beyond that, the man remains a bit of a question mark.

Now, it’s time to taste for myself – what is the culinary legacy of one Mr. Johnny Marzetti? I turn to page 95 of “Joy of Cooking” to begin the voyage. For added authenticity, I pull out my suburban Sunbeam Electric Frying Pan, circa 1979. It was standard issue for those of us who grew up in the “Casserole Corridor.”

The ingredients are simple. Ground beef, green pepper, spaghetti, cheddar cheese, and diced tomatoes. I toss in the “chef’s choice” suggestions offered by the original “Joy-rider" Irma S. Rombauer – sliced mushrooms and olives – but I throw in a few culinary twists of my own to add dimension – thick, tubular Perciatelli instead of spaghetti for added bite, Italian-style Panko breadcrumbs for a heartier crunch and black Kalamata olives for a briny snap.

As the ingredients hit the frying pan, I am transported back to the kitchen of my youth – the astringent freshness of the green pepper, the sharpness of the raw onion and the sizzle of the beef tickles my nose. It reminds me of the many spaghetti and meat dishes we used to dine on growing up in the 60s – but ours were usually clipped from Family Circle, and had names like Noodle Lasagna, Spaghetti Bravisimo or Spaghetti Amore. Great “handles,” no doubt, but lacking the obvious cachet of being named after the sibling of a colorful restaurateur from Ohio. While the truth about Johnny and his casserole-crazed brother may be lost to the annals of time, Johnny is just one of a long line of auspicious “celebrities” immortalized in the kitchen. Even the ubiquitous béchamel sauce was named for Louis de Bechamel, the Marquis de Nointel (1630-1703).

The meat sauce simmers, and I combine the cooked pasta with the cheddar cheese and bake for 30 minutes before removing from the oven. My first impression is that it’s a heck of a lot of food. No wonder the Ohio Public School System dubbed it the cafeteria dish of choice. Impression Number Two – it’s a lot of carbs. I’m going to have to do extra time on the stationary bicycle tomorrow morning. Impression Number Three – I should have invited a dozen people over to join me for dinner.

I pour a glass of Chianti because I think Johnny would have wanted it that way and take a taste. The meat sauce is rich and savory with the taste of garlic and simmered tomatoes. The cheddar cheese and bread crumbs give the pasta a crispy and nutty crust. It’s certainly not haute cuisine, but it’s pretty darn tasty. So much so, that I have three helpings.

Who was Johnny Marzetti? We may never know his complete back story, but I do know this. He liked food that sticks to your ribs and probably enjoyed cooking for a crowd. And, if Johnny’s up there in heaven enjoying a little grappa right now, he knows I ate well tonight.

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Wiggle, Wiggle, Wiggle You Got Nothing to Lose:

The name inspires a haughty smirk, a touch of smug food snobbery, yet this past week the media coverage may have exceeded that of John Kerry. Yes, the 1931 classic recipe “Shrimp Wiggle” is back, courtesy of the “Joy of Cooking” 75th anniversary edition.

The news left many staunch foodies scratching their heads. Shrimp Wiggle was a revered standard in the original “Joy” but was unceremoniously axed from the 1975 and 1997 editions. There were plenty of reviewers who seemed to feel it was better that way. I wondered why? So I headed for Google in search of answers.

The name intrigued me. It sounded like something out of Beatrix Potter. Such a moniker can’t help but inspire a smile and isn’t that what dinner is all about? What’s more fun than food that wiggles? It is, in fact, the ultimate pantry supper, with all ingredients freezer safe or shelf stable until you are ready to cook. And there’s nothing we suburban gourmands love more than convenience – we who were reared on Betty Crocker and Pillsbury Poppin’ Fresh Dough, and still show traces of Chef Boyardee in our blood.

I found a surprising number of recipes online and many varieties, some simple and others more elaborate. But they all centered on the idea of a few sea-worthy crustaceans doing the backstroke though a creamy pink lagoon of sherry, lemon and petite pois.

If that’s not enough, the venerable authors of “Joy” add the ultimate retro touch in presentation. The dish is served in “toast baskets,” crispy little containers described as “delicious and utterly charming” and whipped up by spreading white sandwich bread with butter, pressing each slice into a muffin cup and toasting in a 275 degree oven until golden. It is so faux-elegant, so suburban-stylish to transform white bread into something it’s not.

I just had to try it. So here I stand solemnly at the stove, the Sunday Supper tradition weighing heavily on my shoulders. Surprisingly, there are classic culinary techniques stirred into “Shrimp Wiggle.” The base of the sauce is a roux, and a standard reduction method concentrates the flavor. But, be sure to season generously, as roux-based sauces can be notoriously bland and those little wigglers do love the taste of the sea.

The result? Why, Neptune himself would salivate at the velvety-smooth, coral-pink sauce with sprightly shrimp and bright green peas bobbing throughout. The sherry lends a nutty taste, and there’s a slight tang from the lemon. The crisp, buttered toast adds an appealing crunch and nicely soaks up the delicious deep-sea sauce.

I’m a convert, and in true blogger fashion, I’m now planning to sample all of the additional 65 recipes in the “Brunch, Lunch, and Supper Dishes” chapter of “Joy of Cooking” for my Sunday Supper. I might even invite a few guests. My study should be completed in early 2008, but heck, there is Welsh Rarebit and Johnny Marzetti Spaghetti Pie in my future!

Welcome back, “Shrimp Wiggle.” It was worth the 75 year wait. (With thanks to Bob Dylan for today's title.)

© 2006 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved