Carnivorous Souls: Brisket So Delicious You’ll Want to Punch a Cow

Here’s the thing: This is distilled, simplistic carnality. A big chunk of a large animal minimally seasoned and cooked just this side of forever. A giant slab of delicious that should be kept from the criminally inclined, for in the wrong hands it might be a weapon. If your hunger is big as a planet, this is the third-time-is-the-charm Death Star: No exhaust port, no shield vulnerable to Muppet assault, no escape.

It’s difficult to eat in a crowd: one feels the distractingly irresisstable need to offer high-fives to all within reach. It’s difficult to serve to guests: they tend to get distracted looking for flatware, daintily nibbling at the crusty, salty, fatty slabs of meat that seem to question the worthiness of the consumer. This is a meal that virtually demands you eat it with your bare hands, tearing it apart with nary a thought of a napkin. This is a meal that can defeat you.

Preparing (and eating a portion of) a whole brisket is a visceral experience. There is no dancing around the fact that it is a huge piece of meat. It’s so big that some will advise you to cut it into pieces before you cook it. Barbecue dorks and good butchers call these sections the flat and the point. Another term you’ll hear is cap, referring to the wicked thick layer of fat that covers one side of the whole brisket. You should care about the fat: it will help keep the meat moist while it cooks. When you buy a brisket, make sure the fat is there.

You shouldn’t bother caring about the difference between the flat and the point. You will learn everything you need to know about a brisket after its done, when you cut and tear it apart. Such distinctions are unnecessarily cerebral. But brisket is not a cerebral experience: it is a wholly physical experience. You’ll need big meat forks to move it, a big pan to hold it, a big grill to cook it, and a big board to rest it on before you slice it with a big knife.

Maybe it takes a big ego to even try cooking it. Maybe when you’re tearing into slice after slice of this simple sensory assault with your bare hands you will understand what life would feel like for an early humanoid ancestor who, temporally displaced to our time by a miraculous scientific accident, discovered a natural affinity for rock music and lived out the rest of his days playing sold-out stadium shows for a hyper-laudatory and endlessly adoring fan base. Maybe this is where caveman meets rock star.

1/4 c. coarse ground black pepper
1/2 c. salt
1/4 c. cayenne pepper
1 whole beef brisket, ~16 lbs.

Combine the first three things. Rub the mixture all over the fourth thing.

Place the seasoned brisket in a large roasting pan, cover, and refrigerate for 12 hours.

Set up your grill for indirect heat. Your fire should come from a mixture of charcoal and water-soaked hardwood chunks and/or chips. If you’ve got a totally sweet setup you can forgo the charcoal and use hardwood logs. Keep in mind that anyone who has this setup has already cooked several briskets and so has no reason to peruse food blogs for basic recipes; and so you, dear reader, will probably want to stick to charcoal with hardwood chunks/chips/pieces/etc.

Put the brisket on the grill when the cooking chamber reaches about 225 degrees. Cook until the internal temperature reads ~180 degrees on an instant-read thermometer. Remove from grill and let rest for at least 15 minutes. Slice to desired thickness, against the grain of the meat.

That is a short list of instructions that may make it look simple, and in some ways it is simple. From this simplicity you should feel free to build as much complexity as seems sensible to you. My spice mixture (just say, “rub,”) is based on the formula used at the Kreuz Market in Lockhart, Texas, as reported by Steven Raichlen in his in-most-ways-excellent book BBQ USA. Keep in mind that the number of barbecue rub recipes in the world is exponentially related to the number of grill jockeys in the world. Do some research and follow your instincts.

You might also be wondering what the hell indirect grilling is. It’s pretty easy to understand, and sometimes a little difficult to put into practice. Here’s my advice: Read this about grilling methods, then this about smoking; then put on Eye of the Tiger, do some push-ups, flex your sweet muscles in front of a mirror, and go cook a huge chunk of beef.

When you are slicing it up and you think to yourself, “What the hell is up with this totally gnarly chunk of cow!?” that will be your cue to hit up Wikipedia for a little basic info.

Finally: what do you serve with it? The answer, as always, is whatever you want. Just keep in mind that this smoky, fatty, deeply essentially beefy brisket will dominate the menu no matter what else you serve. If you’re curious, here are the accompaniments that I typically offer:

Saltine crackers
Thick slices of cheddar cheese
Thick slices of raw sweet onion
Dill pickles
Bread and butter pickles
Okra pickles
Potato chips (Tim’s if you can get them!)

Note that all of this can be eaten in the absence of forks and knives. I strongly encourage you to forgo the flatware, at least as an experiment. As I wrote above, this is a visceral experience: you have plates, your hands, and your face. That is enough.

I guess what I’m saying is: make a fire, cook a huge piece of meat, and rock out with your bad caveman self.

Oyster Stew is Love

Oyster Stew is one of those things that you can’t just expect people to like. They’ll either love it beyond words or hate you personally for suggesting they try it. It is the quintessential simple dish: heavy and rich, delicate and complex, rustic and challenging. There aren’t many ingredients, which makes you lean heavily on the few flavors that go in the pot. If you’re not fond of oysters, you won’t like this stew.

My recipe is fairly straightforward, with most of the work taking place on the cutting board. Once you mince a few things, it’s basically on autopilot: put stuff in the pot and before you know it oyster lovers will be killing your enemies in the name of your Delicious Kingdom. Plus, it’s so easy that the cook can totally share in the amazing payoff. It’s not about MAKING stew, it’s about TAKING stew.

This is super-rich and not for the faint of heart. Feel free to adjust the ratios however you want… double the oysters, leave out the potato, etc. In general, the freshness of the oysters will heavily influence the flavor of the stew. I’m fortunate enough to live near Yaquina Bay, which means I have lots of great options with respect to fresh oyster purchases. As always, buy the ingredients that seem best to you regarding quality and affordability.

1/4 cup butter
2 ribs celery, minced
1 Yukon Gold potato, peeled and minced
1/4 cup shallots, minced
2 quarts half and half
1 quart fresh oysters, undrained
Salt and pepper, to taste

Melt the butter in a stockpot over medium heat. Add celery, potatoes, and shallots. Cook, stirring often, until the celery and shallots are translucent and the potatoes are soft, about 8 minutes. Add half and half and bring just to a boil, stirring often. Just as the boil starts add oysters, including any accumulated liquor. Bring temperature up to a simmer and hold for a minute or two. Season with salt and pepper. Serve to people you love and prepare to be high-fived.

Do what seems best to you: substitute milk for the half and half. Use onions instead of shallots. I like to use celery ribs with leaves, because why not!? If you want to go totally fucking crazy you could add some herbs: thyme, tarragon, INSANITY!

I’ve never quite gone that far. Personally, the recipe as written above is more than delicious enough for the likes of me.

Langoustine and Andouille Etouffee

This dish was inspired by this recipe for Shrimp Etouffee at NOLA Cuisine.  I think Danno has an incredible blog there and I want to be clear that I think it is nothing short of spectacular.  I emphasize that because I have some less-than-kind things to say later; but that’s just because I’m an asshole and I tend to be very comfortable with the feeling that whatever I think is right.

That recipe has a lot going for it: I really like the contrast between the fairly lengthy list of ingredients and the straightforward method; and the emphasis on homemade shrimp stock really caught my eye.  The mineral profile imparted by shrimp shells is a pretty unique flavor, and so calling for homemade shrimp stock will generally cause me to give a recipe the benefit of the doubt.

I guess it’s ironic that ultimately, I didn’t use shrimp and didn’t make my own stock.  Instead we picked up some frozen langoustines at Trader Joe’s, and used some lobster Better Than Bullion.  Using the lobster base was a gamble, and I know it’s not a cool “foodie” thing to use.  But you know what?  I just can’t feel bad about making food easier and cheaper.  The combined cost of the langousintes and lobster base was less than the cost of two pounds of shrimp; skipping the raw shrimp made the whole dish a lot easier to handle; and in the end I probably shaved 90 minutes off the total prep time by simplifying that step.  The results were delicious, so I’m satisfied.

Short version: If you want to make shrimp stock, do it.  If you don’t want to bother, don’t worry about it.

One thing that bothered me about the original recipe: the measurements of the ingredients.  It lists, for example, 1/2 cup onion, 1/4 cup bell pepper, 2 tablespoons creole seasoning….  I think it’s ridiculous to write a recipe that can’t also be used as a shopping list.  It just makes hidden work for the reader/cook/whatever.

Think of it like this: you’re at the grocery store, and your goal is to get everything you need specifically for this dish.  You’re browsing the produce, and aha! the bell peppers!  You know you need 1/4 cup.  How does that translate to the pepper you’re holding in your hand?  If you’re an experienced cook, you can probably make a good guess.  If you’re not, you probably buy way more than you actually need, just to be safe.  It’s not a disaster, but I think food writers can do better for their audience.

And: creole seasoning?  WTF does that mean to the novice when they’re in the grocery store?  I did a little research and found a few recipes for creole seasoning mixes, noted their general ratios and common ingredients, and didn’t give it another thought.  But it’s stuff like this that can really leave novice cooks out in the cold: combing the spice racks in the market, searching frantically and futilely for a bottle of creole seasoning that doesn’t exist though all the necessary components are readily and cheaply available.

In short, I read the original recipe and thought it looked delicious; but I also thought it looked like the kind of etouffee a pussy would make.  That’s mean and judgemental, but it led me to invent the following, so I’m going with it.

The method here is super simple: saute, roux, liquid, add everything else, adjust seasoning, simmer.  One pot for the dish, another for the rice accompaniment.