What I Ate For Dinner

My adoration of all things braised has been documented here before, but I've recently come to question my faith in the slow roasts. Somewhere along the line, it dawned on me: this is boring. Braising, I reasoned, is a crusty method from the 18th century that produces uniformly subdued flavors. It lacks curb appeal. It feels like a brown plaid suit. If it were a car, it would be a Ford Granada. I mean, you can't make this stuff sexy, and I'm not going to be the first to try. So I broke it off with braising. I wanted revolutionary food! Food that's punk, food that pisses people off, veritable anarchist cuisine! I wanted to destroy the plate and palate. But then, staring apostasy in the face, I buckled. I came back around. Braised foods have heart. They've got warmth. They care, they really do. And I figured that if I could make them just a bit easier, maybe the low bar that separates success from failure with braising (and it can't get much lower) might become clearable almost as if by accident. Well, then, there'd be hardly any way to avoid it if it's this easy. Conservative cuisine; probably. A layup; sure, no argument. But it feels like home.

Since the last time I did lamb shanks, I've figured out a few ways to streamline the process, remove what I view as superfluous steps, and bring one of the easier dishes out there even closer to hand. So here's the lamb shank redux, which I think produces an identical flavor to the classical method (also paraphrased below) with even less effort.

Start with the shanks in a pan with a lid. A sauté pan works, as does a dutch oven or something of the sort. I've come to notice there's really no good reason to sear the shanks. It's a hassle, smokes up the joint, and produces a result that only melts away into braised oblivion in the end--so I say, forget it. Instead, just put a thick coat of beef or chicken stock in the bottom of the pan with the shanks. If you have no stock, just use white wine. Add a handful of chopped shallots, some fresh herbs if you have 'em, and season with salt and pepper. Throw the lid on, and pop it an oven preheated to around 325. That's it.

Turn the shanks every hour or so. Let them go for between three and four hours. You can go longer if you're really feelin' the braiseage.

Last time I did a sauce with the pan drippings and wine, which works great, but requires dexterous jockeying of a hot pan with lamb shanks waiting to slop out. To avoid an inelegant transfer, you might try this sauce du baron. Start by sautéing chopped shallots in butter. Once they start to color, kill the heat and toss in a half-a-handful of flour. Whirl it around with a wire whisk until the flour starts to clump up with the butter and shallots. Then douse with red wine--enough to put a thick coat (quarter-inch?) on the bottom of the pan. Top it off with a cube or two of demi (good glug of the darkest stock you have will also do). Turn the heat back up to simmer to cook off the alcohol, season with salt, whisk a few times, and you're done.

Gremolata has already been explained here, but I figured out an easier way to make that, too. Gremolata is typically lemon and lime zest, salt and pepper, and a few bits of raw garlic. First, skip the garlic. Second, use a vegetable peeler to get the zest off the citrus instead of a zester. Yes, this is a short-cut, and no, it's not exactly the same. But it's a lot easier. My zester sucks, and it takes forever to peel off tiny shards of zest from a lime. So, use the vegetable peeler and try to remove as thin a slice as possible. That is, get just the outer layer of the citrus peel. Then chop it up into the finest bits possible. They'll be more like flakes, but it's just as good. Season it up, and you're ready to roll.

Serve it up with a simple salad, or quick pickled carrots (julienne carrots, sprinkle with kosher salt, and allow to sit at room temp for 5 minutes to soften).