Those of you who raised your eyebrows at the very idea of lentils mixed with chocolate might be forgiven for thinking that we have lost our tiny minds, that too long around infant children, cooing and a-goo-goo-gooing, has softened our already mushy brains beyond repair. Indeed, had we not gone out on a limb ourselves and given this a bash, I daresay we would be right there among you sucking our teeth and rolling our eyes, but, like many foods that turn out to be extra delicious, a small leap of faith is necessary.

Rather like the sensation you experience shortly after realizing you put on your underwear inside out, eating lentils with chocolate is initially unsettling. That something as earthy and savory as lentils can work with luxurious chocolate is certainly a surprise, but a very dark, high cocoa-solids chocolate does have a distinctly savory quality, and I don’t have to remind you that until some bright spark mixed it with milk and sugar, chocolate was an exclusively savory product for centuries.

The origins of this unusual dish are unclear, or at least we were unable to discover them using Google Translate, and we cannot lay claim to being its inventors, but a recent flick through some old photos reminded me that I had been intrigued by it a while ago. Those among you with long memories, may remember that back in the fall of last year, when we made the traditional Argentine dish locro de mondongo, we mentioned having eaten some Buenos Aires’ favorite empanadas at La Cupertina, a charming little cafe in the Palermo Soho district of that glorious city. And the especially keen-eyed may have noticed that in a photo illustrating said post featuring the window of said cafe the specialties of the house were listed, including lentejas al chocolate.

Certainly not a common dish anywhere, lentils with chocolate can be found on both sides of the Atlantic in northern Spanish, especially Asturian, and Portuguese cuisine, as well as throughout Latin America. The lentils are usually served soupily with a humble garnish of fried, garlicky croutons and a good glass of red wine, but in our own unique, whimsical manner, we paired them with a monster pimenton-spiked pork chop, and attempted a strange kind of winter scene as a garnish, decorating the plate with steamed asparagus tip “Christmas trees” gaily adorned with festive ribbons made from roasted red pepper strips. In quite what role the roasted pearl onions were cast remains uncertain. Perhaps they resemble over-sized tree ornaments, perhaps not. Maybe we are going soft in the head after all.

When our readers actually read our posts, it feels really good. Because we often write a lot in our post, it is understandable why some may choose not to actually read our words. We understand how many blogs exist, and many only have time to do the “blog drive-by” (you know what I’m talking about – the “I’m going to just look at the pictures quickly then comment something like damn! that-looks-deeelissssh!” drive by? We’ve all done it). But the thing we love the most about writing a blog about food from all over the world, trying to infuse history, cultural anecdotes and as much authenticity as possible, is when we get schooled. It’s almost like a sick, food-centered type of masochism. It’s almost as if we are bent over some Argentinian, Spanish, French or Italians knee as they spank us very hard telling us how wrong we were about _______________ (insert ethnic dish of choice here). Knowing we have people actually reading what we write (and telling us how we can do things better) makes us feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It shows us that people are actually reading our words and are interested in enlightening people about their culture. When we get something wrong on the blog, getting schooled helps us learn and grow and we love it.

One may think that one of the best perks of having a food blog is getting free truffle products (ok, that friggin rocked), free yogurt (didn’t rock as much as the truffle) or free seasoning packets (that basically sucked) but my favorite “freebie” actually came in the form of a scanned in family recipe. A bit ago, we received an email from a reader that asked us when we were going to take a stab at featuring “Arroz con Gandules” on the blog. He read the blog and understood the research we do in regards to authenticity and asked us to please try his “Puerto Rican Lady Friend’s” recipe. It happened to be a dish we had on that lovely “list of things to make for the blog” so, once we received this, we figured to look no further. We tried the recipe (even having to email the reader back to make sure I could understand his handwriting correctly) and didn’t even bother with any more research. It was that good and that easy to make and a perfect weeknight meal. If you want to mix it up a bit, do as our reader Christine does and serve it along with Puerto Rican slow roasted pork shoulder, Pernil, instead of the bits of pork.

Arroz con Gandules is often thought of as Puerto Rico’s national dish. It is the dish that will most often be made for the Christmas dinner table and after one taste, you will see why. What could be better than a one-pot meal with layers and layers of flavor?  What could be better than looking around at your kitchen thinking you have opened up a Goya shop (that is if you don’t make your own sofrito, sazon or use canned peas)  What could be better than being able to create a delicious crust of crunchy rice and spices goodness that can form at the bottom of the rice called “pegao“?(**We aren’t talented enough yet to get the pegao right, but I’ll be working on it as soon as we pony up and buy a real caldero). So, here’s to Robert – the reader who so graciously supplied this recipe. We may never have met you, but we think of you every month we make Arroz con Gandules!

Perhaps surprisingly given that we’ve been deluged with guests for the last month, we haven’t actually cooked for them much, or at least, cooked anything we’d dare post. As anyone who’s been a host knows, having guests is an exhausting experience, but especially so when you’re playing the role of tour guide too, so here are two simple side dishes instead of something that required more lengthy preparation.

We ate them with some enormously meaty lamb rib chops and a fat lump of hanger steak that had both been rubbed with a chipotle-cumin-Mexican oregano mix. A hearty red Zinfandel accompanied it all fearlessly.

Anyone who takes even the briefest glance at our body of work on this blog cannot fail to notice that we have a definite proclivity towards the porcine, and so it is that this top five is perhaps the most hotly contested monthly selection thus far.

The pig is, in our humble opinion, the greatest animal on earth, and picking only five products made from its wondrous bounty was a difficult thing. Beatific smiles spread across our faces as we considered our porky love and suggested different products and cuts of the beast, but, after much debate, a surprising consensus form between us, with only two points of disagreement.

Let us know what your favorite pork products are and win a package of pork-related kitchen goodies.

Amy & Jonny’s Top Five Pork Products:
1. guanciale (cured pig’s jowls) - Jonny: switch out for Spanish cured lomo
2. chorizo (pimenton flavored cured sausage)
3. jamon iberico (special Spanish ham)
4. chicharrones (fried pork rinds)
5. scrapple (a Philadelphia tradition made with lots of bits of pig and cornmeal) - Jonny: switch out for unsmoked English back bacon rashers

They (we) call it a Sunday Gravy because it really suits a Sunday best.  The long simmering, the wine drinking, the letting-it-sit-on-the-stove-till-the-family-arrives kind of gravy.  Thanks to the Sopranos, people all over the world have heard of Sunday Gravy. Some scratch their heads in wonder as to why some call it sauce and others call it gravy.  It’s a hotly debated topic but, in essence, this “stew” of veal necks, sausage, pork ribs, bracciole, pigs feet, etc. should always be called a gravy over a sauce. It requires long and slow cooking and is flavored by the meat, hence it is technically a gravy. Friend of the blog, Joe, at Italyville has a wonderful post on this debate and I’d recommend all who are still confused to check it out.

To make the debate even more annoying, the Italian Americans in this country have kind of created this confusion about gravy vs. sauce.  For many Italians in this country, whether you call this type of meal a sauce or a gravy is decided by the family you come from and even the area of the country you live in.  For my Italian family, a gravy seems to be ANYTHING that contains tomato sauce.  Come to think of it, my family calls anything you put on top of meat or macaroni as “gravy”.  But, rule of thumb is if you are in Italy and you ask for gravy, you’re going to get a sauce that contains meat (ragu).  Check out Joe’s link for a perfect example of this from the Sopranos.

Sunday gravy can be made with a variety of meats and as long as you have a decent variety, you can not mess this up.  Our Sunday Gravy included pigs feet, bracciole, pork necks, veal shoulder, and sweet and hot sausage.  Other traditional additions include pork ribs, beef ribs, pork chops, some even put meatballs in theirs.  It’s kind of a “what can you get your hands on” kind of meal.  With that said, I would like to recommend that you do not skip two key ingredients in order to get optimal flavor – pigs feet and the pork necks.  I know, guys, some of you may be squeamish about this but the flavor, OH THE FLAVOR, you get by simmering these delicious bits of offal.  If you feel uncomfortable serving them with the rest of your meat, well throw them out after they flavor your gravy.  But, personally, I believe these two bits of pig really make the gravy.

So put on your ‘fat pants’, throw on some Sinatra, pour yourself a big glass of chiant’ (Chianti to all you non-Northeastern US Italians) and give yourself a good four to five hours to watch the porky love grow in your pot.

SUNDAY GRAVY (serves a sh!tload of people – at least 6 hungry men)

Ingredients:

• 2 pigs feet (about 1 1/2 to 2 lbs)
• 1 pound bracciole (about a 8 inch long piece)
• 2 pounds veal, beef or pork neck bones
• 1 pound veal shoulder (in chops form or cut into 3 inch pieces)
• 1 veal shank (bone-in)
• 1/2 pound sweet Italian sausage
• 1/2 pound hot Italian sausage
• 1 large onion
• 5 cloves of garlic, minced
• 1 cup red wine
• 1 28 ounce can of tomatos (preferably San Marzano – I prefer pureed over whole)
• some water
• olive oil
• salt and pepper

What to do:

1. Season meat with salt and pepper and, with a bit of olive oil in a heavy-bottomed pot (dutch over, preferably), brown all sides of each piece of meat.  Remove and set aside on a plate.
2. After all the meat is browned, add the onions and use the meat fat already in the pan to cook till soft (about 6-8 minutes), adding more olive oil if necessary. Add garlic and stir, cook for about a minute.
3. Add the wine and deglaze, scraping up the bits of goodness that have accumulated on the bottom of the pan.  Allow to reduce for a few minutes until it has reduced by about half.
4. Add tomatoes and one can of water (use the tomato can). Stir.
5. Add back the meat except the sausage and bracciole (which won’t be added until the last hour).  Bring to a simmer, cover and allow to cook for five hours.  Yes, kids, that’s five hours.  Ever once in a while stir.
6. At hour number four, add back the sausage and bracciole and allow to simmer for one more hour.
7. Taste and season with salt and pepper and add some hot pepper if you’d like.  Remove all the meat and serve separately from the gravy. Cut the sausage into 2 inch pieces.  Serve some of the gravy over pasta and enjoy.

I feel kinda cheesy. I admit it, I feel cool about using a butcher. I understand this is lame and that butchers have been around for ages, but, truthfully, in the recent year, we’ve really gotten to know our neighborhood butchers. Growing up in the ‘burbs, meat was only bought pre-cut and pre-packaged. Yes, every once in awhile you’d see the grocery store’s butcher come out from behind those weird black, plastic doors with the small square window. You’d wonder what rock he/she crawled out from because, more often than not (now I mean NO disrespect) those grocery store workers who came out from the back had a few less teeth than me and looked as though “meth” could’ve been their middle name.

After our first attempt at making homemade sausage, I realized how invaluable a butcher is. We live in a country where many people don’t know what kind of animal their meat comes from. Hold up an eggplant to a 10-year old and good chance they may not even know what the hell it is. It’s sad that the neighborhood butcher is starting to become a thing of the past. Hell, I live in Brooklyn, NY, one of the most multicultural places on earth and, in my hood alone we only have a few butchers left. I’m talking about the neighborhood butcher, not that gourmet food store up the street. You know the place – the guy/gal behind the counter has butchers hands and fingers, you know his/her name and he/she knows your name, they don’t switch employees as quickly as McDonald’s and they can easily ask you if you want “the regular”. Word is that the decline in these gems is because young people aren’t interested in carrying on the family trade. Maybe with this economic downward spiral Americans will be more willing to work with their hands again and see the beauty how happy meat/poultry can make people.

Jonny and I have wanted to try and make a dish that we ate in Florence, Italy at the awesome Coco Lezzone since the last time we recreated their Pappa al Pomodoro. It was one of those meals from start to finish that will forever stay etched in my mind. Saveur did a cover story on their Herb-Stuffed Pork Loin in their April, 2006 issue. We tweaked the recipe just a bit (lavender wasn’t a part of the original recipe) and, thanks to our awesome butcher, the dish turned out phenomenally. We’re going to do a version of this for Christmas Day dinner because it’s pretty inexpensive and extremely delicious. I highly recommend you go give your butcher a big hug tomorrow.

COCO LEZZONE’S HERB AND LAVENDER-STUFFED PORK LOIN RIB ROAST – Serves 6

Ingredients:

• 1 6-rib center-cut pork loin roast (about 4-5 lbs)
• 6 cloves of garlic, peeled and ground to a paste
• 2 tablespoons of chopped rosemary
• 3 tablespoons of chopped sage
• 2 tablespoons of thyme
• 1 tablespoon dried lavender
• 2 tablespoons + 1/4 (or so) cup olive oil
• salt and pepper

What to do:

1. Preheat over to 475 degrees. In a small bowl, add together the garlic, all the herbs and lavender with a pinch of salt and pepper and 2 tablespoons olive oil. Use a fork to make sure it’s all incorporated together.
2. Push the handle of a long wooden spoon through the center of one end of the pork roast allowing it to poke through the other end’s center. Do this again, moving the handle back and forth and in a circular motion to allow the hole to get bigger. It will end up being about 3/4 of an inch wide.
3. Reserve about 3/4 of a tablespoon of the herb mixture to be use in a moment. Using your fingers, push some of the herb/garlic mixture into the center hole starting on one side and the finishing on the other. Put roast in a roasting pan.
4. Pour about 1/4 cup or so of olive oil over the roast. Rub it in a bit. Using the reserved herb mixture, rub all around the top and sides of the rib roast. Season generously with salt and pepper and roast the pork in the oven until golden brown – about 25 to 30 minutes. Reduce the oven to 350 degrees and continue to roast for an hour longer or until the internal temperature is 160 degrees.
5. Allow pork to rest about 10 minutes and then carve into individual chops. Serve with the pan drippings (which are DEEE-LISH, by the way!).

Although we were the lucky recipients of a gorgeous red tagine as an engagement pressie from my parents friends a few years ago, we decided to forgo using it in the 95 degree heat New Yorkers were forced to endure last week. For those who may not know, a tagine (or tajine) is a clay vessel used for the North African dishes of Moroccan cuisine. It’s a two-parter type of deal – the bottom is like a heavy clay pot about five inches in depth and the top is a cone-like lid. There are no air holes in a tagine and this is specifically for keeping the steam inside. It almost creates a small clay oven on your stovetop or in the oven. What’s absolutely brilliant about this cooking vessel is that, due to its conical shape, it retains the moisture which is emanated from the ingredients inside and as it rises, it gathers on the conical top and falls right back into the food braising perfectly. This creates real depth of flavor as well as moist and delicious meats, especially those cuts that are tougher or cheaper. Tagines are really made for slow and low type of cooking and are used for a variety of different types of meals including meat or fish tagines and even soups. I highly recommend getting one of these babies for your kitchen and trying it out – but wait until it’s not 90 degrees outside.Which brings me to the actual recipe portion of this post – it’s friggin/freaking/fricking/fuggin/fucking (however the heck you express it) hot here in my neck of the woods. H-O-T. The last thing I felt like doing was turn on my oven. Luckily, on a shop-a-holic spring weekend in April we got summer-fever and spent about $300 we don’t really have at Lowes. At that time (and in my “holy s&it it’s the first 60 degree day” happiness fog), I thought it would be a great idea to purchase a $99 gas grill for our “backyard”. Somehow, miraculously, we shoved this very large gas grill in our small ‘backyard’ in Brooklyn (I use the word backyard lightly considering our plot of bricked-over land is about 7 feet by 3 feet – but I AM NOT COMPLAINING… honestly!). It’s the best financial investment I’ve made since buying my husbands greencard 5 years ago!

I’m rambling. Apologies. I’m writing this as I’m at the beach, pink with a light sunburn, and I’m 3/4 of the way down a very strong vodka tonic (twist of lime, thank you very much!). Anyways, it was freaking hot in New York, I was craving a tagine and I did not want to turn on my oven or stovetop. What’s a girl to do? Buy all the ingredients for a tagine and cook them on the grill separately. So, that’s what I did and let me tell you kind readers, it was freaking fabulous. We grilled every bit of what I would’ve put in a tagine and we served it with a nutty and fruity couscous. It’s been done time and time again, but, like I’ve mentioned before in another “deconstructed meal”, sometimes you just want to cut into things with a knife and fork. This meal was super easy and obviously much quicker to cook than a tagine. It’s perfect for the hot summer. Just rub your favorite Moroccan spice blend over your lamb (or use chicken if you’d prefer!) like a Ras el hanout, and grill along side fresh apricot and olives. Yes, we grilled olives. Although I don’t think it’s necessary to grill, the olives did take on a nice flavor by grilling them. Throw it all together with some cous cous and (as my British husband would say) you’re laughing.

I have submitted this dish to Grill It! this months “Monthly Mingle”. 

TAGINE-STYLE MOROCCAN LAMB WITH GRILLED APRICOTS AND OLIVES – serves 2

Ingredients:

• 2 lamb shoulder chops
• 1 large onion, cut into thick slices (about 1 1/2 to 2 inches)
• 10 large whole green olives
• 2 apricots (you can use dried apricots or other stone fruit like plums if it’s not the season)
• For Moroccan Spice Mix:
  • 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 2 teaspoons coriander
  • 1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
  • 2 teaspoon cumin
  • 1/2 teaspoon ginger powder
  • 1/2 teaspoon chile powder or cayenne
  • 1/2 teaspoon paprika
  • 1/2 teaspoon tumeric (optional)
  • 1 teaspoon kosher salt
• For Cous Cous
  • 1 cup of couscous (your favorite brand – if it’s packaged, no problem
  • chicken stock to cook it in
  • 1/2 onion, minced
  • handful of fresh coriander, minced
  • 2 tablespoons pine nuts, toasted
  • 1/2 lemon
  • 1/2 cup raisins
  • 1 teaspoon of the moroccan spice
  • 1 can chickpeas
  • 1 teaspoon lemon zest

What do to:

1. Add all the spices together and mix with a fork or spoon to create your Moroccan Spice Mix.
2. Rub spice mix generously on lamb and allow to sit for at least 30 minutes using a little olive oil to help it adhere.
3. Make sure to reserve at least one teaspoon of the mix to flavor your couscous.
4. Heat grill to medium-high and grill your chops for at least 4 minutes (perhaps as many as 6 minutes – use “poke” test to check) per side for a nice medium-rare pink.
5. After a couple of minutes, oil the onions and begin grilling. These need around five minutes per side and be careful turning them as they tend to separate.
6. After turning your chops over, add the olives, neatly threaded on some skewers. These don’t need that long, they just need to blister a little on all sides.
7. Remove chops to a plate, cover with foil and allow to rest.
8. Oil, salt and pepper the asparagus and begin grilling them.
9. Add chicken stock to couscous, cover and let absorb.
10. When stock is absorbed, add pistachios, spice mix,herbs and lemon zest and fluff together. Aromas will be wonderful!
11. Remove onions, asparagus and olives from grill. Add all to plate and sprinkle generously with some more pistachios. Enjoy!

Check Out Some Other Posts You Might Enjoy:

Knowing Your Tagliatelle from Your Tagliolini
At the Desk Gourmet: It’s the Future
Free Lunch for Inner-City Kids: Does Free Mean It Needs to be Crap?
I’m Dreaming for Some Cured Pigs Cheeks

I feel like we go on and on ad nauseam about our trip to Italy last summer, and I suspect that if it hasn’t happened already, our faithful readers will begin to tire of our constant references to those halcyon days of pastoral bliss, romantic nuptials, and devastatingly good food. So, before your goodwill towards us is exhausted, I want to wring out the last of it with this post on the remarkable dish that is deep-fried lamb rib chops

Perhaps ironically (and this may extend your patience toward us), the only meal, or in this case, part of a meal, that I ate during that trip that was not first-class was the secundi course of the meal in Bologna that included the frankly phenomenal ragu bolognese my wife wrote about recently, namely the deep-fried lamb rib chops. Not that it was bad or even close to bad, it was actually pretty good, but they were slightly overcooked and therefore dry, something I am almost proud to say I could discern even during the intense examination of the final dregs of our third bottle of Barolo.

Crispy exteriors combined with unctious, moist interiors are the holy-grail of almost every fried, grilled or roasted meat dish, where the crispy outer layer insulates the flesh and keeps it moist. However, there is a very fine line between success and failure in these endeavors. Too far one way and you’ve got a crispy outside, but a dry and tough inside. Too far the other, and you’ve got a limp crust and a bloody interior. Lamb rib chops are the beautiful, tender pieces that correspond to the rib-eye (the rib attached to the tenderloin) on a steer, and are frequently served as a rack, medium-rare, with the bones nicely trimmed (Frenched) and often with a garlic & parsley breadcrumb crust that is rarely as crunchy as you want it to be, and I wanted to experiment whether deep-frying could provide the crunch as well as the medium-rareness I had tragically missed out on that night in Bologna.

Indeed, the stakes were further raised by the horrifically high price of lamb in the US. It took this transplanted Englishman a long while to get used to the scarcity of lamb in this country where beef is king (despite there being huge swathes of land that are eminently suitable for sheep-grazing), and the cost has kept us on a steady diet of braised shoulder chops, unable to branch out into the leg or the rack until a fortuitous wander into our local Pathmark store coincided with a virtual giveaway of perfectly Frenched rib chops. Seizing this opportunity with a vigor that may have shocked my wife, I loaded up our shopping cart (yes, the trolley) with rib chops and it was this bounty, as much as anything, that convinced me to try deep-frying them. After all, if it didn’t work and they turned out like hockey pucks, we could still broil or grill ourselves some dinner with the rest.

A little bit of luck, and I prevailed in this experiment and I’m delighted to say that these rib chops were as good as any I’ve eaten anywhere. Assuming you also have the good fortune of finding lamb rib chops at a reasonable price, you should not only grab an armful, but you should try this recipe right away. It would be the perfect thing to impress dinner guests with, and since the chops are fried and therefore quite rich, two per person will suffice, making you appear generous and feel thrifty at the same time. Joy.

Fried Lamb Rib-Chops with Grilled Polenta, Broccoli di Rape and Balsamic Reduction

So, before continuing, I should say that I shallow fried my chops instead of deep frying them as I was nervous about overcooking them. Shallow frying allows you to do the “poke-test” on them (poke the meat with your finger, if it feels soft, it’s rare or very rare, if it is firm, it’s well-done, you want it somewhere between. The trick is knowing when is enough.)

Ingredients (serves 2)

• 4-6 lamb rib chops, frenched
• 1 cup plain flour
• 1 cup panko, or very coarse fresh breadcrumbs
• 1 cup soda water/sparkling mineral water
• 1 tsp salt
• 2-3 cups vegetable oil
• 1/2 cup balsamic vinegar
• 1 clove garlic, smashed but with skin-on
• 1 sprig rosemary

Recipe

• Combine salt, water and flour in a mixing bowl into a batter of medium thickness.
• Put oil in a 10inch (20cm) diameter frying pan. Should be about 1/2inch (1cm) deep.
• Heat oil to around 350F (175C)
• dip chops in batter, then dredge in panko (breadcrumbs) and lay them gently in oil. Do not overcrowd pan. We did ours two at a time.
• Fry chops for about three minutes per side, or until slightly darker than golden brown on the outside.
• Use poke test to determine done-ness.
• Place in a warming oven (200F/95C) and allow to rest for five to ten minutes.
• Add balsamic vinegar, garlic and rosemary to your smallest saucepan.
• Over medium heat allow it to come to a boil. Reduce heat to about medium-low and allow to reduce by at least half.
• Keep your eye on it at this stage because it can very quickly go from a perfect consistency to a bitter-tasting molasses.
• Remove garlic and rosemary and serve sparingly over your lamb chops.

Check out these other posts you may enjoy:

• Truffled Butter: A Prince Among Ideas
• San Gennaro Festival, Little Italy, NYC – Ain’t What it Used to Be (Girl’s Version)
• Pork Roll and Scrapple – The Dirty Culinary Pride of South Jersey/Philly
• SHREDDED CHICKEN SOPES WITH TOMATILLO AVOCADO SAUCE
• GRILLED STEAK WITH TARRAGON GARLIC BUTTER
• CHESTNUT CUSTARD TART
• SPANISH (AUSTURIAN) OXTAIL WITH FRIED POTATOES

This is the way we are with a dish we call “lidia’s lamb”. I’ve no idea what the real name for it is since I’ve never looked up a recipe for it and I’ve only watched it being prepared once, on TV, by Lidia Bastianich, on her show Lidia’s Italy, but that’s what we call it. Essentially, it’s lamb shoulder chops braised in a sauce made from dijon mustard, anchovies, garlic and chicken stock, but such a description belies its richness and savory flavors and, if you’re crazy and you don’t like anchovies, it will put you off. So, just take it from me, you need to try this dish. It’s virtually impossible to mess up, it’s delicious and you can make it from scratch in under an hour, making it perfect for a weeknight meal, or if lamb is hard to find or expensive where you live, a good option for a dinner party because it’s so easily scalable for larger numbers. Plus, once you’ve made it the first time, you’ll be having cravings for it a lot.

Lidia’s Lamb
(recipe serves 2, but for more just scale the recipe up. You’ll probably need more than one pan too, but you can figure that out yourself)

Ingredients
2 lamb shoulder chops (4-6 oz each)
approx. 2 pints chicken stock
2-5 cloves garlic, thinly sliced (depending on your tolerance for the stinking rose)
1-2 shallots, finely chopped
2-4 anchovy fillets (the salty ones in oil, you know what I’m talking about) (add more of less depending on how squeamish you are about anchovies – see final note below)
6-8 tbsp smooth dijon mustard (we prefer Maille, but Grey Poupon is fine. Don’t even think about using American yellow mustard! Save that for your hot dog.)
2-3oz plain flour
2 tbsp olive oil
black pepper to taste

Recipe
Heat a large skillet to medium-high heat. Dredge chops in flour and shake off excess. Hit pan with the olive oil and add the chops.
Cook chops for about three minutes per side, or until golden brown. Make a hot spot in the pan and add the shallots and garlic.

Allow these to saute for a couple of minutes until softened and fragrant, then add the anchovies. Stir anchovies vigorously around the pan until they start to disintegrate. After about another minute or two, add enough stock so that the liquid is at the same level as the “top” of the chops. Using your tongs, scrape the crusty bits off the bottom of the pan and turn the chops over. Add about half the mustard at this point and stir it in.

Reduce heat to medium and allow chops to braise in simmering liquid for about another 25-30 minutes, turning chops occasionally. Keep an eye on the level of the liquid and add more stock whenever it falls below the “top” of the chops. Meat should have begun to pull away from the bones after about 30 minutes.

Taste the sauce at this point. It should taste like it needs more mustard. Add some or all of the remaining tablespoons of mustard according to your taste. Increase heat to medium-high and allow sauce to thicken for about another 5-8 minutes. When it’s done the sauce should be around halfway up the chops and be of a medium thickness, with a pleasant sheen to it. Check seasoning and add black pepper to taste before serving.

We often serve this with some roasted potatoes because they usually take approximately the same amount of time to cook as the meat, providing you cut them reasonably small, parboil them first, and slap them in at least a 400F oven. We also often serve it with some asparagus, kale or broccoli di rape on the side. It sounds kind of heavy I know, but it’s really pretty well-balanced and very satisfying. I promise you, you’ll like this one.

And, just a final note, if you’re worried that the people you’re cooking for don’t like anchovies, I will be amazed if they can tell this dish contains anchovies. All the anchovies do here is add a salty, umami-ish flavor to the dish that brings it all together. You’ll notice that I don’t add salt to the recipe – that’s why. So, please don’t exclude the anchovies because the dish will not be the same without them. Again, just trust us on this one.

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”
- William Blake

Have you ever thought, as you sit red-faced, breathing shallowly, “just… one… more… bite”? Have you ever then taken that extra bite and thought to yourself — in your blood-starved brain — “maybe, after all, I could manage another one”? And, finally, upon swallowing said final mouthful and feeling a previously unknown thickness on your tongue, have you ever thought, “perhaps I’ve overdone it”? It is at this point, as your mouth slowly stops salivating, your breath becomes labored and characterized by sharp exhalations and sighs intended to revitalize your flaccid organs, and your belly feels so tight and distended that if it weren’t for the shocking quantity of food you’ve just ingested (and several other flabby bodily areas), you might resemble a starved Ethiopian child, that you begin to understand why gluttony was included among the seven deadly sins.

Such was my state of mind as I sat, gravely concerned that I might actually suffocate myself internally as my stomach pressed up hard on diaphragm and lungs, at Casa Portal restaurant in Madrid, after a meal that would make a man’s recommended weekly caloric intake appear somehow unlikely to provide sufficient nourishment. The culprit you ask? Well, apart from my own greed, gluttony and propensity to exceed normal physical boundaries, the culprit was fabada. Fabada Asturiana to be precise. The famed bean and pork stew of the Asturian mountains (Picos de Europa) in northern Spain.

As earlier posts have described, I passed a vacation several years ago traveling in northern Spain and found it to be a formative experience. The food, the landscape, the culture and the climate had a profound impact on me and have kept me returning to Spain as regularly as possible given the intervening years in which I’ve gotten married and moved to the United States. Enjoying fresh seafood, doused in garlic, parsley and olive oil, and washed down with non-carbonated local cider in the beautiful, secluded harbor town of Luarca is one particularly evocative memory. And so it was that when we were in Madrid recently I wanted to recollect these memories, so we spent most of a morning walking across the city in search of an Asturian restaurant that had been recommended to us.

Our meal began with a selection of Asturian appetizers, including a tunafish and tomato empanadilla, a whole steamed morcilla, and a large cooking chorizo simmered in cider, accompanied by chewy bread and a liter of Asturian cider. My wife was then presented with what can only be described as a pond-sized bowl of fish bisque, that we shared but could not finish. Thankfully, a pause of fifteen minutes offered some digestive respite to our already extended guts and allowed our moistening brows to cool. However, when the final assault came, it was one that an hour-long intermission would not have adequately prepared us for.

My fabada arrived in a bowl of similar proportions to my wife’s soup course, and in it, along with the delicious softened, yet still toothsome, large white beans, came half of ANOTHER cooking chorizo, half of ANOTHER morcilla, and an entire pork chop. Maternal warnings of eyes-bigger-than-belly swam in my head as I plowed in, loosening my thickly greased palate at regular intervals with an excellent Crianza from Navarre. The beans were, well, like butter, and the various pork products, each delicious and flavorful in their own way, but the star of the dish, and indeed the entire meal, was morcilla.

This blood sausage, sometimes made with rice, sometimes with grains, which we Brits would class as black pudding, is common throughout Spain and, I’m sure, is widely derided by most tourists — even those with gourmet aspirations — for being disgusting. As I began to labor through the final mouthfuls, it crossed my mind just what levels of dietary deprivation had forced the inventors of morcilla to collect an animal’s blood and congeal it with fat, salt and grains, and fashion it into a sausage for preservation and sustinence later on. In the same way, I often try to imagine the back-breaking work of so many grape-pickers during the annual vendanges as I take my first sip of a newly-opened wine, in order to better appreciate the effort and craftsmanship that goes into the things I enjoy most. However, in this instance, my reverie for Spanish food culture was interrupted (and would not return for a while) by a lack of blood to my brain, as it flooded south to my upper intestine to begin absorbing the porky appetizers of the previous half hour.

An uncomfortable period followed (I know not how long), during which my wife was kind enough to gently pat my limp hand and fan my flushed and fevered cheeks with a napkin, before I was able to even contemplate the short walk to the bathroom — the pressure having eased above was now pressuring a full bladder below. Even upon staggering back to the table and slumping ungraciously into my seat, I was unable to consider taking a glass of refreshing water so full was I. Apparently, until this point, I had been unable to articulate my suffering, but chose this moment to confess that not only might I have overdone it, but that I might also be experiencing a previously unheard of “pork overdose” that could turn out to be prejudicial to health. My wife replied pithily that at least I was advancing medical science by my gluttony.

Eventually, my bloatedness subsided enough for me to leave the restaurant and lurch slowly around the shopping district near the Goya metro stop, ashamed everytime my sagging and pallid features were reflected in a store window. And, lest, you think, gentle reader, that you might be prepared to risk a similarly harrowing experience in the daring pursuit of local specialties, you should know that as a result of my over-indulgence at lunch, I was unable to eat anything for the rest of the day and so missed an entire evenings’ worth of tapas.

If these were the immediate penalties of gluttony, the medium term ones have been even worse. I try in vain to shake off my fabada-induced weight gain each midday at the gym and, so far, I see no change in my girth. Yet, in spite of all this (self-inflicted) suffering, I still feel that it might well have been worth it. One only learns one’s limits by testing them, no?

Unsurprisingly, we have not yet had the courage to make our own version of fabada since returning to the States, though we intend to do so before winter is out. In the meantime, our good friend Nuria at Spanish Recipes Pic by Pic recently posted an authentic fabada Asturiana recipe on her site, which we will be putting through its paces just as soon as we can face it.

THIS IS AMY (the wife) TO SAY SOMETHING: The story you have just read above is not only true, but not even exaggerated. I really have never seen this man react to overeating (which we too often do, unfortunately) the way he did after consuming the fabada this day in Madrid. It was mildly hilarious, but kind of scary as I didn’t know how to say “Where can I get his stomach pumped” in Spanish. We hope to make our own fabada soon since we finally were able to find morcilla for sale in a speciality store. I’m just hoping it doesn’t have the same effect on the man this time.

If you are interested in reading more of our posts on Spain, please check out:

• The REAL Cocido of Spain
• Jamon, Jamon
• Pictures of Madrid
• Unusual Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Tame Tapas We Ate in Madrid
• Cabrales Cheese: It’s a Bit of an Animal
• Vermut (Vermouth): Rediscovering an Old Classic
• CHORIZO, CHICKPEA AND POTATO SOUP