Lamb Shanks
The urge to make lamb shanks came upon me suddenly
this week. Truth be told, I didn’t know what a lamb shank was until a
couple of days ago, but the thought of braised lamb in wine and tomatoes with
white beans made me eager enough to find out. Part of the appeal may have been
inspired by a longing for the signs of spring, but I also had a vague notion
that shanks were exotic and unusual - a new culinary delight to
explore.
•
I called up my friendly neighborhood butcher (who is
not exactly in my neighborhood and, as it turns out, not terribly friendly) and
inquired about lamb shanks. “Tomorrow. I’ll have two
tomorrow,” he said in a tone that can only be described as meaty. Visions
of fluffy-white lambs bounding gleefully and innocently toward him momentarily
crossed my mind, but I reserved the meat anyway. Admittedly, I was feeling a
bit elevated to have begun what I hope will be a long and fruitful relationship
with my
(my)
butcher - I’ve always wanted to have one. Later that afternoon at the
grocery store, rubbing elbows with mere mortals who don’t have a butcher
of their own, I ran smack into a whole pile of lamb shanks – ugly, sinewy,
knobby, two-dollar-a-pound lamb shanks - and I came back down to
earth.
•
I held one up suspiciously and examined what appeared
to consist of more connective tissue than meat strapped taut across a 6-inch
bone. It looked extremely unappetizing. I almost cancelled my order with the
butcher on the spot. The only thing that stopped me was that I had read again
and again that slow cooking uncovers the inner beauty of these ugly
ducklings.
•
In retrospect, I’m thrilled that I stayed my
course. Yesterday afternoon, I went to the butcher shop to retrieve my order.
A teenager (The butcher’s apprentice? Do they have those?) called into
the back, “You got those shanks?” I heard a familiar meaty growl,
“Over there.” I strained to get a glimpse of the man behind the
cleaver, but to no avail. Somehow I will have to devise a strategy to befriend
this man. The boy came out with a largish bag – much bigger than I had
expected after my grocery experience. “I only ordered two,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “How much do they weigh?” I asked.
The scale tipped at two and a half pounds. The grocery store shanks had each
weighed no more than two-thirds of a pound. “Just two? You’re
sure?” “Yup.”
•
It was at this point that I became both very curious
and very excited. I barely made it back to the kitchen before unwrapping them.
These were what shanks should be! Thick chunky pyramids, a bone spiking out the
top, and a stripe of creamy white fat down one side. My hope was
revived.
•
I browned them well in a little olive oil, then set
them aside and threw in a batch of aromatics: diced onion, celery, carrots and
garlic. When they had softened, I added Chianti, chicken stock, chopped
tomatoes, tomato paste, some thyme, a bay leaf, salt, pepper, and the beautiful
shanks. Brought it all to a boil, turned the heat way down, put a lid on it,
and went away. For two hours. In the meantime, I did boil some white beans
that had been soaking since the morning. When they were almost tender, I
drained and rinsed them and left them to wait.
•
Fifteen minutes later, the apartment started smelling
really good.
•
An hour in, it became hard to wait. In my head I
started singing “Mares eat oats and does eat oats and little lambs eat
ivy, and I would eat lamb shank stew, wouldn’t you?” Does this make
me a bad person?
•
At two hours, the meat was tender as anything. I
added the beans, and let it all simmer together with the lid off for another
thirty minutes. Also (and you know I’m geared up when I make a garnish) I
chopped some fresh flat leaf parsley with some lemon zest.
•
I ladled some beans and sauce into soup plates, laid
the shanks on top and sprinkled the lemon-parsley over it. The meat was
practically falling of the bone. In fact, if you’re having trouble
believing just how incredibly tender and flavorful a braised lamb shank could
be, listen to this: We ate them with a spoon.
•
The braise was rich, deep and complex, the beans
adding substance and medium for a sauce that would have been a sin to waste. I
think we’ll eat the leftover beans like soup. The lamb was luscious and
moist. Together they formed the kind of soulful flavor experience that sticks
with you for a long while.
•
I don’t like to think of how dinner last night
might have turned out had I bought those horrific lamb shanks at the grocery
store. I attribute much of the meal’s success to the
(my)
friendly neighborhood butcher, and I plan to tell him face to face.
Posted: Fri - February 20, 2004 at 03:21 PM