reichl on steaks and dads:

Need anything else be written about butchers, steaks, father/daughter adventures?

"...our journey always ended at the narrow butcher shop on Jones Street, with its sawdust floor and its find mineral aroma. The cases were filled with the bacon that they smoked themselves, pink and white strips spread out like gorgeous fabric, and a few pretty little lamb chops, red circles of meat clinging to elegantly long bones and decorated with frilly paper caps.
"Good morning, Jimmy," my father would say.
And Jimmy would look up and smile and seem delighted to see us. He'd hand me a slice of salami, or some of the liverwurst he brought down from Yorkville, or sometimes the dried beef that he made when business was slow. "Fine morning," he'd say, even when it wasn't.
"We need a porterhouse, please," my father would say. And Jimmy would reply,"The finest steak there is!" as if the thought had occurred to him for the very first time. Then he would pull open the heavy wooden door, with its huge slab of a handle, and disappear into the cooler in the back. When he reappeared he was carrying what looked to me like half a steer, although it was really just the short loins that had been hanging for a few weeks, acquiring a fine patina of age.
Picking up a hacksaw, he'd indicate a cut: "This much?" And no matter how thick it was, my father always said, "A little thicker, please." And Jimmy would nod and cut off a substantial steak, humming as he worked. When he was done he'd hold up the steak and point out the fine veins of white tracing a pattern through the dense red meat. "Good marbling," he said admiringly every week, as if this steak was a special star. "All the flavor's in the fat. Cut off the far, you can't tell the difference between beef, pork, and lamb. That's a fact. Did you know that?"
Then he'd thump the steak onto the chopping block and begin the ritual of trimming. First he'd cut the thick blue-black layer of mold from the outside of the steak, scraping it until the bright red flesh beneath the crust had been revealed. Then he'd carefully remove a few inches of fat from the edges so that only a creamy white frame remained. Carefully folding in the little tail end, he'd lay the meat on a piece of pink paper and heave it onto the scale.
"You're going to have a fine dinner," he'd say, as if the compliment were to the cook and not the cutter. "Don't be afraid of the salt."
"That's the secret!" my father always replied, carefully tucking the parcel under his arm. Waving cheerily, we'd walk out the door.

At home we had another ritual. Three hours before it was time to eat, my father would jump up from his chair and say, "No point in cooking cold meat." Together we'd go into the kitchen, remove the porterhouse from the refrigerator, carefully unwrap the package, and set the steak on a platter lined with wax paper. When it had thrown off the chill, Dad would salt it, releasing a small blizzard over the meat. "The secret to a great steak," he always said, "is that when you think you have enough salt, you add some more. The other secret," he'd say as he got out the big cast-iron skillet, "is to heat the pan until it's blazing hot and cook the meat exactly eight minutes on each side."

"And the final secret," I'd add, doing my bit, "is the butter." My job was to plunk a lump of sweet butter onto the sizzling steak just as my father set it on the platter.
My father carved the steak with long, precise strokes of the knife, carefully separating the sirloin that he and my brother preferred from the tenderloin that my mother favored. The bone was mine.
While they plied their forks like civilized people I'd bring the bone up to my face until the aroma--animal and mineral, dirt and rock--was flooding my senses. Then I'd bite into the meat, soft and chewy at the same time, rolling it around in my mouth. It was juicy, powerful, primal, and I'd take another bite, and another. The meat closest to the bone was smooth as satin, and sweet. It tasted like nothing else on earth, and I would gnaw happily until the bone was stripped naked and my face was covered with a satisfying layer of grease."

--Ruth Reichl, Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise

happy meat-iversary!

My cubicle-mate and I share many things, including a disdain for action films, an infatuation with tiny cheeseburgers, and the same calendar-date wedding anniversaries. We also seem to share an anniversary tradition of consuming large slabs of red meat at restaurants chosen by our spouses.

One of our co-workers got wind of our tradition and gifted us with his family's special spice rub.



Can't wait to try it. Gosh, I just love meat gifts. And anniversaries. And even cubicles, sometimes.

these are ducks.

These are ducks.

Not duck breasts, duck sausages, duck liver pate; but ducks. These birds lived in the wild and were hunted for food in the Mid-West in January. Shortly after the end of their lives, they were de-feathered (mostly), cleaned, tagged, and transported to California by said hunter. After some time chilling out in a freezer, they landed in my loft in Los Angeles to be roasted and presented to small gathering of friends.

Let's see you tell that story about a hot dog.

DUCK MEAT, or, best email ever:

a club worth joining

For Christmas, the man purchased a subscription to Zingerman's Bacon of the Month Club for me. Funny thing, same thing happened as did with the Valentines' Day/Kitchenaid meat grinder debochle of 2009. A few days before the holiday, I forwarded him an article that I found to be exciting. A bacon of the month club! What a great idea.

Husband immediately gets kicked puppy face.

Oh no. Here it comes.

"Christmas is ruined. I discover the perfect gift, and you find it on your own. The surprise is gone."

Well, the surprise was gone. But the bacon... that was not so easily spoiled.

Stay tuned for my praise of the best of the bacons.