Meats and Things

Last time Margy made pizza, there were many mouths to feed, so she whipped up an unusually large batch of dough. I asked her to freeze a little of it, for two reasons:

1. I didn't want either of us to have to spend an entire evening slaving over a hot baking stone.

2. I wanted to keep trying to make Those Things.

Fast-forward to this morning, when I woke up thinking, Steak. Those Things. Steak. Those Things. Steak, AND Those Things! I became bewitched by the idea of beef and anchovies (the latter being a vital ingredient in Those Things) making sweet music together on our dinner plates. I could not get the idea out of my head. And Margy was all for it.

At the market, I couldn't find a single steak that was large enough to feed both of us, so I augmented a little porterhouse with a few lamb chops. (Lamb. Anchovies. Lamb, AND anchovies!) And I decided to try my hand at creamed spinach, which I love but had never made.

We let the dough defrost for a while in the fridge, and then we took it out so it could rise. Later on, I stretched it, sprinkled it with sweet paprika and hot pepper flakes, dumped a can of anchovies on top, oil included (this is of paramount importance), and rolled and sliced it. I'm still nowhere near achieving the crisp-and-chewy wonder of my aunt's (or my grandmother's) efforts -- remember, she uses supermarket dough, which may somehow be key -- but having even second-rate Those Things is cause for celebration. And I can tell you this: They go great with a mixed grill. And so does creamed spinach.

Come Here, My Deer

When Homey flew in from Iowa, he brought more goodies than just a couple of bass guitars.

He also smuggled in some fresh-kill venison for me. His buddy had shot the deer -- with a permit -- and then had it cleaned, packaged, and delivered to Homey frozen solid. Solid enough to survive the journey from Des Moines to LaGuardia without breaking a sweat. So now Margy and I had two venison round steaks (not the best cut, admittedly, but what's he gonna do, give us the loin?), plus some ground deer to boot. It was exciting to have a little contraband, not to mention a little venison, which I'd never cooked before, in our house.

When I defrosted the steaks, their deep purple color freaked Margy out. But she's a toughie, and she's enjoyed eating venison before. She'd just never seen it raw. Me, I was still humming with the thrill of discovery.

I seasoned the steaks with salt and a mixture of toasted, cracked peppercorns (black, white, Szechuan), then slathered them with chive butter and tossed them on a hot grill. Now, everybody tells you to be careful not to overcook venison, which can happen easily due to its low fat content. I am here to tell you they're right. Our steaks were thin, and I figured I'd cook them for two minutes per side... but I knew that if they were even remotely undercooked I might lose Margy completely. I went to lift them off the grill, and I flinched, thinking I could see a visibly underdone portion. I waited another minute.

Oops. Overdone.

But not badly. Still, I didn't have a second chance -- no one else is bringing me deer meat -- and it was tempting to sink into the depths of despair. Margy, though, who'd been suspicious enough not to mind the lack of perfect pinkness, kept my spirits up by telling me the steak was delicious, which I admit it was, just a little tougher than I'd wanted it. Deep purple hue aside, I could tell by looking at the raw steaks that they were good specimens, and I knew they were about as fresh as frozen meat can be. Once cooked, the venison looked a lot like beef, and it didn't taste wildly different. I did not detect any kind of distinct gaminess, which I doubt I'd have minded anyway, since I love eating things like lamb and game birds. And my consolation was that the part closest to the bone was the right shade of pink.

Next up, venison chili.

A Little More Fat Can't Hurt

I'm really starting to dig compound butters.

Tonight I made chive butter to brush on a grilled steak, and I spread a bit on some Italian bread, which I also grilled. We had an ear of leftover boiled corn in the fridge, and I grilled that too. Had I grilled the salad, it would have been a clean sweep.

The condiment, which was made by mixing chopped chives and a drop of lemon juice into softened butter, was delicious and really made a difference. Of course, the steak, a rib-eye, was the star, and I must brag that I cooked it perfectly. Margy grew up spending lots of time in Germany, the land of buttered meat (and, of course, the land of chocolate), so she definitely has carnivorous tendencies. I, on the other hand, have always been a great lover of pork, but for a long time I went entirely without steak. I'm glad to say those days are over. I'm not sure what I was thinking.

Tastes of Summer

Margy and I checked our crave-o-meters, and for some reason only a steak would do.

I didn't spend $26 or anything, but I did find a nice rib eye. When it came off the grill to rest for a few minutes, I brushed two rolls with olive oil and melted butter and grilled them as an accompaniment. Then I topped the sliced rib eye with tomatoes from our garden that I'd roasted with garlic and thyme (a nifty condiment that pretty much goes well with anything). The whole thing could have easily been eaten as a sandwich, but we went with the knife-and-fork method.

At the farmers' market yesterday it was clear that it's now or never as far as corn is concerned. It was a bad year for corn all around, so by mid-September the tables were stacked with skinny little ears, which had all been picked over and partially shucked. But we found a few decent ones, and it was still summer for at least another night.

The (Almost) Perfect Steak

I have a confession to make: This is the most expensive steak I've ever bought. It's an Angus porterhouse, and I got it at my beloved butcher shop, which is admittedly a pretty swanky joint. I even let the guy talk me into a bigger one than the steak I first pointed at.

Anyway, my parents paid for it. They had given Margy and me a gift certificate to this meat haven, and I'd been waiting for a splurge to use it. My $8 parcels of pancetta can be paid for out of pocket; I'll let the folks take care of the $25 slab of beef.

As I lit the grill, I was nervous. It's not like I was trying to cleave the Hope diamond, but I really didn't want to ruin our porterhouse. It was so much bigger than the other steaks I'd cooked that I wasn't exactly sure how to adjust the grilling time. In the end I probably left it over the coals for a minute or 90 seconds too long, but it wasn't a big deal. Actually, I was letting my mood turn dark, but Margy came in and rescued me. "It's perfect!" she said as I sliced it. "What are you talking about?"

It was an almost ridiculously fine specimen. I dare say I might not have been able to ruin it if I tried; it was that tender and juicy. It had taken on a nice crust, and any pieces that were cut near the bone were spot-on medium-rare.

My advice: Next time you're going to cook a steak, step it up a bit -- it's worth it. Life's too short for second-rate meat.

Rib-Eye Bull's Eye

We decided it was time for a steak.

I was assuming porterhouse, but when I got to the store, the rib-eyes were the ones saying eat me.

They were incredibly gorgeous, fresh and red and marbled with fat that would soon melt itself into flavor. Meat like that ain't cheap, but I had entered the range of the tractor beam. I was powerless to resist. Take my money, just give me the good beef.

At my sister's suggestion, I toasted some peppercorns, all the kinds I had -- black, white, Szechwan -- then ground them up and pressed them into the steaks. I built a superzealous fire and browned those babies up nice. While they rested, I put some par-boiled broccoli and wonderful wheat Italian bread on the grill, all of it brushed with butter and olive oil. Our Mexican neighbors, charged up after their country's World Cup victory over Iran, walked by and nodded their approval. I wish I could have fed them too.

Avoiding One's Mis-Steaks

I'm not a big-time steak guy. There are too many wonderful permutations of pork to distract me. But Margy and I do like a good steak, and since we rarely have one, we tend to go for broke and get a porterhouse.

This one looked so great as I seasoned it up -- all thick and red and sturdy -- that I made a pact with myself: I would not overcook it. I'm getting better at judging cooking times, but I still let things go too long (or not long enough) on occasion. Steak especially, since I don't get to practice very often, and since I'm frankly not exactly sure how I want to cook it. I gave tonight's porterhouse about five minutes on the first side to get a nice char, and then I flipped it for three minutes more, maybe three and a half. After letting it rest, I started carving it up, and it was clear that it was not overdone.

"Is that cooked enough?" Margy asked.

"Yes," I said. In my heart, I wasn't sure.

I took a bite. Man, it was good.

"YES," I repeated, more firmly. "Don't worry. Eat it."

It was medium rare, more rare than we usually eat steak -- it was more like the way I usually cook lamb -- and it was a revelation. I had a good piece of meat on my hands, sure, but cooking it correctly made it that much better. I served it with a crispy-creamy potato gratin and broccoli rabe with garlic. With a big glass of red wine, it was a good way to end Margy's workweek. I bet we'll get another steak soon.