Italy: Slow Cooked Lamb Shoulder (plus video)

It’s only so much time that can be spent in a state of blissful relaxation before the mind turns to food.

On holiday breakfast tends to be a mere distraction – a hastily gobbled croissant, piece of fruit or biscotti washed down with a short, sharp coffee. Lunch provides a brief respite from the heat of the day, usually some bread and cheese with a couple of tomatoes on the side.

But dinner is where the magic happens. This is the real centrepiece of the day where effort truly pays off and the gentle preparation can be done whilst gradually slipping into a state of happy inebriation.

As such, the majority of my days were spent thinking about what to cook that evening.

Being in possession of a pizza oven, we, naturally, cooked pizza. But the giant domed edifice was still warm come the following morning: the perfect conditions to slow cook some local lamb.

After adding some more fuel we went in search of the meat and returned with two whole shoulders – almost a quarter of the beast – ready to be browned off, sat atop some freshly picked rosemary and crushed garlic and shoved into the waiting furnace, cooking slowly in a winey bath until it emerged lovingly tender and achingly delicious.

It also seemed a good time to indulge in my first ever video post so please be kind. I’m still learning.

And, yes, I really did come that close to setting my head on fire. Look carefully and you will see the innocent, yet telltale, wisp of smoke rising from my reddening forehead.

Slow cooked Lamb

Leg of lamb is fine, and if that’s your sort of thing then I’m happy for you. But shoulder is the business end, where the real flavour is. It does a bit more work, and as such should be cooked longer and slower, but the effort is worthwhile.

It’s also slightly fattier which will baste the meat from the inside keeping it juicy, rich, tasty and tender.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6PTiukdKTs]

Serves 8-10

Two lamb shoulders, complete with neck
Two bulbs of garlic, squashed lightly under the flat of a knife
Half a lemon
Two handfuls (think bricklayer’s size rather than manicurist) of rosemary
Salt and pepper
Half a bottle of red wine

Season the lamb with salt and pepper all over and brown in a large frying pan. Layer half the rosemary and garlic in a casserole dish big enough to hold everything comfortably. Nestle the lamb on top and then deglaze the frying pan with red wine.

Put the rest of the rosemary and garlic on top of the lamb, squeeze over the lemon then pour over the wine.

Cook in a 200 year old wood burning oven for about four hours, turning and basting halfway through. Temperature? Pretty hot.

NB – Make sure you don’t get too close to the oven and singe your fringe.

If you are only in possession of a regular oven go for about 120 degrees. Serve with potatoes and maybe a token salad. Maybe.

For more slow cooked and half baked musings, follow me on Twitter

Aperitivo

‘A bicyclette, that’s what we’ll drink,’ I said with unreserved confidence.
‘A what?’ asked my brother.
‘A bicyclette,’ I repeated with similar bravado.

Memory can be a strange thing. I’d called to mind a simple cocktail from Fergus Henderson’s ‘Nose to Tail Eating’. It had Fernet Branca, an Italian bitter of some alcoholic fortitude, as its main constituent.

Sitting in the courtyard of an Umbrian farmhouse and gazing out over the patchwork hills, it seemed the perfect opportunity to try this potent little number.

‘Are you sure that’s the right recipe?’ said my brother as he watched me splash equal parts of medicinally coloured Fernet Branca and lurid Campari over ice.
‘Yup, positive,’ I replied.

Although I didn’t have the book with me, I was sure this was how to make a bicyclette.

The drink is so-called because after two or three you are unable to ride home in a straight line on your bicycle. When the mixer weighs in at a hefty 20% alcohol you know you are dicing with forces more powerful than your average aperitivo. This was no regular stomach-readier.

The first sip offered surprise: a distinct alcoholic bitterness. But a cooling sweetness swiftly followed by the Campari. It was dangerously drinkable and over the following week it led to a number of dinners being eaten considerably later than planned.

When we returned home I consulted the book to check I’d got the recipe right.

I hadn’t. What I had done was combine the only two drink recipes in Henderson’s two books: Campari and white wine (the famed bicyclette) and Fernet Branca and Crème de Menthe (a Dr Henderson)

What could have emerged was a terrifying hybrid monster. Thankfully it didn’t and the slightly skewed memory served only to create something new, something tasty, something to ready yourself for a night of gastronomic indulgence.

I shall name it a Centaur – it approaches like a gentleman but has the kick of a stallion.

Centaur – an aperitif for the brave

One part Fernet Branca
One Part Campari
Sugar syrup, to taste
Lemon juice, to taste

Pour the booze over ice, stir. Have a little sip. If the taste make you pull a face like a baby eating marmite, it’s probably a little bitter. Add sugar syrup and lemon juice until you reach a pleasant combination.

Two of these will give you the appetite of a king but render you unable to cook at your best. Take precautions.

Back home…

Phew. Amazing week in Umbria and somehow managed to strike the perfect balance between adventure and inaction each, naturally, involving much food.

Plenty to write about including making pizza in a furnace and probably a video post too so you poor, poor people get to see and hear me as well as read my culinary ramblings.

Fairly busy week coming up so it may be a few days before I get the chance to start the write ups but you are so wonderfully patient, I’m pretty sure you won’t mind.

And Ryanair is a sorry excuse for an airline. Just had to get that off my chest.

Back Soon…

Off to Italy. I’ll be spending the next seven days here:

Normal service will be resumed forthwith. Until then, ‘arrivederci!’

Italian Flatbread

I’m assuming that as a well-seasoned traveller and committed gastronome, you’ve been to Rome. Please forgive me if this is not the case but play along anyway. It’ll be fun. Promise.

My first time was about five years ago. Just me and my Dad exploring the Italian capital and imbibing Peroni, pasta, pizza and football in equal measure.

But the best meal we ate was a hastily bought picnic of bread, cheese, tomatoes and cured ham eaten on the steps of a backstreet church close to the Campo de’Fiori. A couple of chilled beers completed the feast nicely.

Campo de’Fiori, the city’s old flower market, is now home to a daily food market where visuals, smells and flavours meld together in luscious Technicolor with the intensity of a thousand ristretti.

Cafés and bars line the exterior of the diminutive square, encircling a generous selection of stalls around a central statue of Geordano Bruno, a 16th century philosopher who was executed as a heretic in 1600.

In the southwestern corner is a bakery from where smells waft over the square and jostle for prominence against the rich coffee scents coming from the various cafés. Their large rectangles of salted flatbread are a firm favourite with the city’s residents and we barely managed to secure ourselves a large slab when we were there.

But we did. And it was amazing – thinner than a focaccia, more substantial than a pizza base and tastier than pitta bread. Just something unique, special and incredibly tasty.

Since then I’ve been meaning to recreate this delicious bread, liberally drizzled with olive oil and a scattering of sea salt and this morning I finally got round to it.

The dough I now use is an amended version of Jeff Herzberg and Zoe Francois’ Artisan Bread in Five Minutes A Day.

Initially I really struggled with getting the consistency right (perhaps something to do with English measurements) but I’ve gradually made a few changes and now have something that bubbles away nicely in the fridge like a cartoon swamp.

The other change is that I treat it as a sourdough – whenever I take some of the dough out, I replace it with extra flour and water, give it a stir, cover it and leave it in the fridge.

Firstly it means not having to make a master dough every few days and secondly it means you start to get some real character in your loaves as it ages and becomes more complex.

For the flatbread just grab a handful of the dough and spread it out over a well-oiled tray using your fingers so that it covers the area. Brush the top with more oil and scatter with sea salt.

Bake in a hot (seriously hot – about 250 degrees) for ten minutes, or until the bread starts to brown.

It tastes best fresh from the oven and needs no adornments to aid the Italian experience.

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