Ale Mary!

Sunlight has been replaced by low clouds, cold winds and rain. Reminding us that spring is a nebulous promise of better weather to come. My over optimistic clothes are layered further with more sensible attire. The dog, averse to the damp, the wet, his lead, anything that does not suit, makes the walk to the shops longer than shadows in the setting sun. I return, rainwater pooling at my feet, to a sombre, lightless kitchen. As dark as a just poured Guinness. I put Ella Fitzgerald on to lighten this sombre, moody atmosphere. The swing will give me a rhythm. A sway.

Baby It´s Cold Outside…

I have beef. A classic dish, you may think. But I am minded for a different, underrated comfort. A couple in front of me at the butcher´s counter giving me inspiration for what to cook. It will be as hearty as it is unhealthy. Watch out.

I turn the oven on and search for my ingredients, my utensils and my pans. Knives. Tongs. Spatula. Everything. Lining them out on one work surface. An armoury of equipment ready for a battle. The fridge light flickering like a neon sign as I remember to get another ingredient out. On. Off. On. Off. I am ready.  

Cow-Cow Boogie…

Dripping, the bovine ointment to dishes, smokes in the frying pan as I hold it over the cooker´s flame, swirling the shimmering fat around the base so there is no part uncovered. Normally I oil the meat first and add it to a dry pan but today I must lean the other way. The big chunks, room temperature, a handful at a time, sizzle and hiss as they hit the fat. I sprinkle sea salt and wait for the meat to give itself up from the pan´s surface. The seared side a woody, nutty brown. A man called Louis Camille Maillard described caramelisation in 1912 when he watched the reaction of amino acids and sugars change the flavour and composition of the meat as it cooked. Fascinating. I bet he was thin.  

With my tongs, I turn each cube over. Turn each cube around. Carefully spacing the meat so that it does not steam. Does not become chewy. Rubbery. I repeat the process. Over. Around. Over. Around. Every handful, until all the meat is cooked. The pieces placed in a Dutch oven. The frying pan is set aside to cool a little while I chop. The remaining fat poured into a dish for later.

And The Tears Flowed Like Wine…

My knife is sharp enough to shave with. I refrain. I am slicing onions. Onions, sensuous vegetables, alluring alliums, they can shed their layers like Salome. I discard the crisp tan coloured parchment, removing the outer skin, then top and tail them. I halve them and work quickly with the knife to create thin half-moons, Selenic slices. I am only halfway through when the tears begin. Within seconds I am working blind. My clawed fingers preventing bloodshed. The slicing complete, my eyes puffy and sore. I am very emotional.

I put olive oil into the frying pan and return it to the hob. Any dripping residue will help the flavour, but I resist the urge to overwhelm the palate and the arteries with more fat. The warmth turns to heat, and the slices start to sizzle. I lower the setting and sprinkle sea salt onto the onion to help break it down. Low heat and the caustic hit of sodium will render the onion translucent, pearlescent. I do not want crisp slices. This takes care. This takes time. A glacial, clock ticking, patience testing wait. They will be placed amongst the meat pieces awaiting the flavourings.

That´s The Way It Is…

Garlic cloves, the parchment flurrying from the bulb like feathers from a burst pillow. Well, not so much. I take four plump cloves, cut off the root and remove the skin. Slowly, I grate them on a fine bladed plane. The perfume adds to the kitchen´s nasal notes. A seductive small mound awaiting the onions´ completion. I set aside a small amount to be used for the finale. A crowning glory.

The Frim Fram Sauce…

I prepare a paste. A mix of flavours and colours to add to the senses. I am an artist stirring his paints. My paint, the sauce. My easel, the plate. Into a small bowl, I tap some sugar, soft dark sugar, a rich, toffee scent teasing the nose. Vinegar is poured over it to dissolve the dark crystals. Cider vinegar? White wine vinegar? No! It has to be malt vinegar. The earthy, oaty, creamy smelling, sharp, snappy liquid is the only thing for this recipe. It is also the only thing for chunk-chip style fries, I might add. Strangely, both pommes frites and this dish derive from the same region. Yes, the French lied.

I dollop in, as that is all that you can do, tomato paste. Its thick puree adding another dimension of flavour. Dijon mustard. The best. An ochre colour swirled into the tomato. A Daliesque swirling, melting Spanish flag. My emulsion is done.  

Four or Five Times…

Stock. Beef stock. Glistening beer bottle brown jelly. Jewel like. Are there brown jewels? I try shaking out the jelly only to be confronted by a resistant vacuum that leaves the stock sitting upside down in its container high over the pan. My movements useless to the anti-gravital gel. I pour some hot water into the sink and place the tub in it. The scalding heat will loosen the sides and release the stock. I count for a minute before a second attempt. I raise the tub. I know I can do it... I can do it... I can... I cannot. I return it to the water for another minute. Raising my tub above my head, as if to create more momentum, I shake again. Phup. Phup. Splat. This time the stock lands unceremoniously into the saucepan. The hob lit; the jelly slowly liquefies like ice in a glass.

Smooth Sailing…

The onions, rendered down, golden in colour from the long, slow cook are now ready to join the beef pieces. First, I find some flour. A good heap of the white, ground grain, sprinkled and showered over the allium slices. The heat is raised. The fats and the flour meld as I stir them together. I just need to hear the sizzle, see the flour take on the lightest toasty hue before releasing liquid heaven into the pan.

Beer? No. Trappist beer. Brewed by a monastical order. Consumed with a religious fervour by those who love it. Intensely strong, malty and deep in flavour. Darker than night and denser than a London fog. This will complement the sauce´s flavours. The fizz as it hits the pan. The foam, rising then dissipating into the roux of flour and oils. I scrape all the flavourings on the base of the pan, stirring rapidly. Nothing must be wasted. The proteins in the flour puff up. Thickening. This dish needs a sticky, comforting coating to the beef.

Stairway to the Stars…

Steam swirls and waves in ghoulish spirals above the surface. The stock is now ready. I gently add some of it to the frying pan, loosening up the floury onion mix before pouring the contents into the Dutch oven to join the beef. The remaining stock poured in, I garnish the cloudy dark liquid with a sprig of thyme, before placing a lid firmly on top and surrendering the stew to the oven.      

A Tisket, A Tasket…

Bread. A Baguette where ginger spiced bread is more traditional. I cut it up into discs. Not too fresh, it needs to absorb the beery juices underneath but remain firm, solid on top. A half crouton if you like. The crust´s crumbs spread like sawdust on the surface of my kitchen, as I slice. It is thick. I scoop the dust with one hand, placing them in a plastic tub for the birds to enjoy in the morning.

Like a bird myself, I pinch-pick the leaves slowly off a twig of thyme. My forefinger and thumb feel meditative relief from the miniscule movements. Pinch. Pull. Toss. I could use the back of a knife to rub the sprigs, but it is not as neat. Pinch. Pull. Toss. They drop into another small bowl. My fingers smell delightfully herbaceous, but I do not have the luxury of wearing it for long.

A hearty amount of Dijon mustard is dropped in. More mustard? Yes. You can never have too much. Can you? To that I add some gruyere cheese. A soft, nutty, creamy cheese that easily melts when heated. Fine sprinkles flutter into the bowl. The small portion of saved garlic is stirred into the mix and a drop of olive oil to loosen it up. It is ready to spread.

I spoon a portion of the mustard sauce onto a roundlet of bread, dropping it dead centre onto the bready disc. Then using the back of the teaspoon, I carefully spread it with widening circles until the white of the bread is barely visible. I want to create a cobble effect with the discs. A sauce mounded toasty ridged cobble. I repeat this. Over and over. Until enough are done.  

A Sunday kind of love…

The stew comes out of the oven. I pause. My glasses are utterly steamed up. Ironic that while I am frozen the pot is bubbling. With the deftness and skill of a premier league footballer, I close the oven door with my foot. The steam slowly dissipating, revealing anew my kitchen, I can place the Dutch oven onto the work surface, lifting the lid to reveal the sticky, dark stew.

The bread pieces I arrange in a rosette on the surface of the steaming stew, mustard side up. They will act as a crust, sealing in the remaining juices, absorbing some. Back in the oven, lid free, I wait for the bread to become the promised croutons. The cheese to melt on them. The mustard to bubble on them. The garlic and thyme to permeate them.  

Carbonade de Boeuf a la Flamande. My wide, deep bowl, it cannot be an ordinary plate, warmed through, anticipates the meal. The stew has sat resting for a few minutes to settle. I use a large spoon to lift off the crust of crouton. The mustard sauce has spread more than I thought it would. The finest web of molten dairy clings to the each of the neighbouring slices as I lift a couple at the same time. Reluctant to separate. A rush of steam accompanied by the sweet and sour aromas of the stock, meat, beer, vinegar and thyme, fill my side of the kitchen.

No vegetables. No potatoes.  No accompaniment. I simply ladle cubes of beef into the bowl, an extra scoop of sauce, then place a couple of cheesy-mustard croutons, propped to the side.

I need nothing else. Well, maybe a beer.