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photo credit: Jonathan Lovekin for The Observer
Several people, after reading Cooked, have attempted to make Maiale al Latte, or pork cooked in milk, with varying degrees of success. I've gotten a bunch of requests for guidance, so even though it's hardly something I'd cook myself in August, I'm just gonna go ahead and give you all a recipe for it so you can experience the counterintuitive deliciousness that happens when milk curdles and caramelizes around slow-cooked pork.
Traditionally, this dish is made with pork loin, but I prefer it with pork shoulder because rather than toughening with hours of cooking, it relaxes and becomes tender.
6 pounds pork shoulder, cut into two-pound chunks
Zest of 2 lemons, removed in 1-inch strips (I like to use a vegetable peeler for this)
12 sage leaves
12 garlic cloves, peeled
1 gallon whole milk
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper, if desired
The night before cooking, season the pork generously with salt on all sides. If desired, season with freshly ground black pepper as well.
The day of cooking, pull the meat out a few hours before you're ready to start.
When it's time to start cooking, get out your biggest dutch oven (maybe two dutch ovens, if you've got them!). Heat it over medium heat, and when it's nice and hot, lightly coat the bottom of the pot with olive oil. Place as much meat in the pan so that it's packed in a single layer--no more--and the meat isn't touching, and brown over medium-high heat on all sides until it's nice and golden all around. You might have to do this in a couple batches.
When the meat is all brown, turn off the flame, tip out the grease and place the meat back into the pot. Now, it's ok if it touches, but it should still all be in a single layer, no more. If you have more meat than will fit in the pan in a single layer, use a second pan for the rest of the meat. Add the zest, the sage, and the garlic cloves, and then enough milk to go halfway up the sides of the meat. I usually will squeeze in the juice of half a lemon to get the curdling going faster, though the oil from the zest is actually enough to curdle the milk. So, do it or not--you can't mess it up either way. Turn the heat on, cover the pot (but leave the lid ajar), and bring the milk to a boil, then immediately reduce to a gentle simmer. The milk should be just barely active, so usually this means that the burner is on the lowest possible heat. Milk has a lot of sugar in it, and it will burn super easily, so turn it down!
It will take the pork shoulder at least three hours to become tender, so pull up a good book, or take this time to make some polenta, beans, or greens. Clean your kitchen. Sort through old family photos. Organize your spice shelf. Whatever you do, don't leave the kitchen, because you're going to have to do three things for the duration of the cooking to make sure things don't go awry:
1) turn the pork pieces--as in rotate them and move them around in the pot--every fifteen minutes or so so that they don't stick and burn,
2) scrape the bottom of the pot with a wooden spoon to make sure that the milk, though it will caramelize and that is really tasty, does not burn,
3) constantly be adding more milk so that the total liquid level never is less an inch and a half up the sides of the pork.
After about 30-40 minutes, the milk will start to curdle and thicken, and though it looks really gross at first (Who am I kidding? It looks pretty gross the whole time), it will taste so so so so so good. But those curds are prone to burning, so take your stirring seriously.
When the meat falls apart to the touch--this might take 3 hours, or closer to 4, then it's done. Remove the pork from the pan, and do your best to skim off some of the insane levels of fat that have rendered out of both the pork and the milk. For something like this, the easiest way to do that (short of chilling the whole thing overnight and scraping off the cold fat) is to pour all of the curd sauce into a tall, narrow container like a measuring cup, and then use a spoon or a ladle to siphon the fat off the top. Once you've gotten the fat off (or most of it), taste the sauce and adjust the salt if necessary.
Slice the pork into portions, and serve with generous amounts of the sauce. This is traditionally served with polenta, greens, or white beans. I like it with a big pile of barely blanched green beans, so that I have something really fresh to eat alongside the super comforting, really cooked pork.
I purposely wrote the recipe for 10+ portions, so you'd have leftovers. For this much of a time investment, you should get a few meals!!!
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| photo: peden+munk |
When I was first learning how to cook, Chez Panisse held a contest, open to all employees, seeking a better (tastier? more clever? more original?) tomato sauce recipe (using canned tomatoes) for use through the winter months. There weren't many rules beyond this: we were to use only ingredients that were readily available in the CP kitchen (i.e. local, seasonal and organic).
Having only just started to cook, I was too intimidated to enter myself and felt like I had too little authority to even try, but it felt like pretty much everyone else, from bussers and wine runners to porters and, of course, cooks, submitted a recipe. The prize was $500 and having your name on the menu every time the sauce was featured, so people got really into it, as you might be able to imagine.
Entrants were instructed to bring in their sauces for a blind tasting on a weekday afternoon, and a team of impartial judges (a.k.a. the chefs and Alice) set about the arduous task of trying the veritable panoply of sauces. Some had seasoned their sauces with dried oregano, others fresh marjoram. Some crushed their canned tomatoes by hand while others painstakingly seeded and diced them. Others added chili flake while still yet others channeled their inner nonnas and pureed their sauces, pomorola-style. It was tomato mayhem, and in the kitchen we were all atwitter, waiting to hear who the finalists were.
At one point, Russ came back into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and I'll never forget what he said when we asked him how things were going:
"There are a lot of great entries. So many, in fact, that it's hard to narrow them down. But it's a shame that some of the particularly good recipes were made with bad olive oil."
What they couldn't understand, and understandably so, was why all of the employees wouldn't have cooked with good olive oil, especially when it was always available to us to buy at cost through the restaurant.
While some of the chefs were able to imagine cooking a sauce made with bad olive oil with better ingredients at the restaurant, Alice, he said, in particular, couldn't get past it, because her palate was so sensitive. She couldn't separate the "what is" from the "what might be."
Never before had it occurred to me that olive oil, or any oil--the cooking medium itself--would have much effect on the flavor of a dish. This was my first glimpse of understanding that not only did it have an effect, but that as the foundational ingredient, the flavor of olive oil pervades every single molecule of a dish.
So, in the same way that an onion cooked in butter tastes different than an onion cooked in olive oil, an onion cooked in good olive oil tastes different (and in this case, better) than one cooked in a lesser quality oil.
So, before considering even one of the many political/health/outside reasons for using a better olive oil in your cooking, know that the way your olive oil tastes is directly related to how your food will taste.
Choosing an olive oil can be a daunting task. Just at my local food market, there are probably four dozen different brands of extra virgin olive oil on display. Then, there are all of the virgin and pure oils. If I hadn't had the good fortune of living in Italy, where I got to familiarize myself with some of the most talented oil producers throughout the country, I'd probably have adverse reactions to olive oil shopping, traceable back to the levels of stress they'd cause in my body. I mean, virgin or extra virgin? Italy or France? Organic or not? Is that olive oil on sale any good? Why is some olive oil $30 for 750ml while another is $10 for a liter? What is going on? And how can you tell the difference?
I get it. I mean, I usually know what I'm looking for and I still get an accelerated heartbeat every time I enter that aisle at Berkeley Bowl. Sheesh.
It's why when Jen asked me to help her learn how to choose an oil, I figured there must be more folks out there wanting to know the same information, and I took the opportunity to dive headlong into answering the age-old question of how to know what olive oil to buy.
Photo of Tenuta di Capezzana in Tuscany by Ira Block for National Geographic. (Image Source)
Taste. Taste. Taste.
Taste, not price, is your best guide in choosing an olive oil. This might require a leap of faith on your part if you don't know what you're tasting for. All of those words, like fruity, pungent, spicy and bright might seem confounding if you've never considered that olive oil can taste like much of anything besides, well, oil, but it's true, a good olive oil has multiple dimensions. The only way to familiarize yourself with them is by tasting, and paying attention to what you sense. If you taste something expensive and don't like it, then it's not for you. If you find a ten dollar bottle that's delicious, then you've scored! In this way, olive oil shopping is much like wine shopping.
Before you bother with anything else, taste and trust yourself. You have to taste, and ultimately, you have to let your own taste buds be the judge, because food is alive, and ever-changing, and inconsistent, and magical, and even an olive oil that I or another cook may rant or rave about is different from bottle to bottle, batch to batch.
I will say, though, that while it's harder for me to tell you what a "good" oil might taste like, it's fairly simple for me to describe a "bad" one. There are several main reasons why I won't buy an olive oil, including: bitterness (to the point that I'm coughing or gagging), overwhelming spiciness, a "dirty" or "smelly" flavor, and rancidity. These are all deal-breakers. There's a place in my pantry for almost all other flavor-manifestations of olive oil.
Once you are comfortable with a brand and you are confident that you know what a "good" oil tastes like, then hopefully you'll feel empowered to take a risk and try a different oil, and over time you can familiarize yourself with the characteristics of different oils and different regions. I've found that coastal olives produce milder, sweeter oils (like that Ligurian one below), and oils from the Tuscan hills are peppery, bright, and powerful. But even within a region, oil can differ widely, so again, we return to the ultimate arbiter to help us judge: the palate.
Ay, there's the rub.
How can you taste an olive oil before you spend twenty bucks on a bottle?
Well, you can't. So sometimes you have to take a blind leap. Some markets might host tastings or let you try a product before purchasing. Other markets will let you return items if you're not pleased with them. And finally, by all means, before spending big bucks on a bulk tin of oil, buy a small bottle to experiment with. If you don't go through olive oil quite as quickly as I might, it might be smarter to buy it in smaller amounts anyway (or to split a larger bottle or tin with a friend or two) so that you can use up the oil before it goes rancid.
For olive oil, unfortunately, the term "organic" is practically meaningless, since international regulation of organic standards is totally irregular. Unless an olive oil is coming from an organic farmer or producer who you are already familiar with, don't let this be an indicator of whether or not to buy (though I will say that the organic Costco oil is tastier than the regular, and when buying oil from a producer of that size, I'd prefer something to nothing in terms of regulation). Instead of "organic," there are a few other things to look for on the label of a bottle of olive oil that may suggest higher quality, including:
Things that aren't a necessarily indicator of quality:
What to do with it after you bring it home:
Extra-virgin--this is the highest quality (and usually most expensive) oil derived from olives. Extra-virgin is always made by pressing raw olives soon after they are harvested. It's low in acid, and often offers the widest range of flavors, so it's best used unadulterated, in things like salads and condiments, since heating it up will change its chemical makeup and diminish its delicate flavors.
Virgin--this is also a high-quality oil, which is produced by the same exact methods as extra virgin. The only difference is that it tests at a higher acidity level so it cannot technically be called extra virgin. Virgin oils are also good for salad dressings, mayonnaises, condiments and light cooking.
(Pure) Olive oil--When a label reads "pure olive oil," or simply "olive oil," it usually means that the bottle consists mostly of refined oil, which has been treated with heat and/or chemicals to balance out the flaws and neutralize flavors, with a small percentage of virgin or extra virgin oil added back in for flavor. It's usually pretty light in color. Since it doesn't have much going on, flavor-wise, this oil is great for browning meats for braises and making anything long-cooked. I also sometimes use it as a base for mayonnaise and then go back and add good oil to finish. It's a great, affordable, neutral cooking oil.
Extra light olive oil--Similar to pure, but without any good oil added back in for flavor. This means that this oil is totally refined and basically void of any of the characteristics that make olive oil olive oil. It's not bad, just not really anything special. Would be good for browning meats for braises or slow-roasted anything. The "extra light" doesn't denote that it has any less caloric value--it's just as fattening as regular old olive oil.
Cold pressed--the olives and oil were not heated above a certain point during processing, resulting in an oil with more integrity of flavor and nutrients.
First pressed--the oil is the product of the first press of the olives. Sometimes olives are pressed a second time, and the resultant oil is of lesser quality (a second press will usually yield "pure" or "extra light" oil).
What I use at home:
I'm always changing things up, based on availability, curiosity, the current state of my finances, and of course whim. But the one constant is taste--I won't buy crappy olive oil. These are all great olive oils that I rotate through the kitchen. I usually have a few on hand, but for most home cooks who don't toe the line of insanity like I do, one cooking oil and one fancy oil are enough.
Take a look at these oils, and if one seems to catch your interest, familiarize yourself with its label and maybe you'll find it on the shelf of your local natural or specialty foods store. If you trust me and my taste buds, spend the money, buy the oil, and bring it home to taste and cook with.
Where to buy olive oil:
Many of these olive oil producers sell to distributors who import throughout the US, so most of these are going to be somewhat easy to find in a shop like Bi-Rite, The Pasta Shop, Dean & Deluca, or Zingermans. In the Bay Area, local grocery stores like Rainbow, Berkeley Bowl, and Monterey Market have great selections of olive oil, as does Genova Delicatessen.
Even though I've noticed that Whole Foods has a huge selection of high quality olive oils, I wouldn't buy fancy oil there unless pressed to, because I think most of those bottles just sit on the shelves for a really long time, aging and creeping ever-closer to rancidity, which is inevitable in olive oil around the 14 month mark. Since you're paying a premium for good oil, it's worth it to make sure you're buying from a retailer with quick turnover.
I have my own issues with and try not to shop at Trader Joe's because of their lack of transparency, and their behavior throughout the whole Immokalee situation (even though I suppose it's technically been resolved), but I totally get that for a lot of people it's the best or only option, or that they just plain like it. The thing is, since most everything is a house brand there, there's no way of knowing what you're getting, really, until you buy it and taste. But since things are pretty affordable there, it's an easy way to put your taste buds to the test.
California
Sardinia
San Giuliano Oils: Affordable and relatively mild, these oils have been the mainstay cooking oils in my kitchen for the past few years. I like their pure and their extra virgin, as well as the delicious Cannonau red wine vinegar. I use the neutral pure oil for browning roasts, all-purpose, and things like mayonnaise base that I then finish with better, more full-bodied oils.
Sicily
Tuscany
Puglia
Francesco de Padova: The 5 Liter tin is a STEAL! Howard Case has had a relationship with these Pugliese producers for years, and imports these oils and sells them himself, keeping costs relatively low. I really like these oils--the pure is great for cooking and the extra virgin is a wonderful all-purpose oil.
Liguria
Costa dei Rosmarini: I went through a seriously obsessive phase with this olive oil in 2004 and it remains a favorite.
Spain
Siurana olive oil: This isn't a brand, but rather a DOP. Kelly brought me some Siurana olive oil recently, and it's delicious. I'm not really educated when it comes to olive oils from beyond the borders of Italy or California, so this was a really great introduction to high-quality Spanish oil. Thank you, Kelly!
i forgot to write about the befana on january 6th. the befana is one of my favorite things about italy.
she's a fabulous old woman, not exactly a witch, who rides around on a broom and brings children presents on the day of the epiphany, which is january 6th. in italy, kids don't really get presents on christmas. instead, they leave out the biggest, most worn out socks they can find on the night of the 5th, along with a glass of wine and a plate with some delicious leftovers, and hope that she'll come fill them with candies, oranges and gifts (and not lumps of coal).
because she's extremely polite, she'll sweep your floor on her way out with your broom, too.
i love flickr. i was searching through my photos for a shot of the baroni stand at mercato centrale in florence, where paola and alessandro baroni have curated their findings of the rarest, softest, freshest pecorini toscani. i couldn't find one of my own, but lo and behold, this lovely shot was just a couple of searches away. i'd recognize that handwriting anywhere.
you might be wondering why i am suddenly so concerned with cheese as to write two very long posts about it. well, i think about cheese a lot to begin with, but now that i have this ridiculous cast on my arm and it's suddenly fuh-reezing outside, only one long-sleeved garment i own has fatty sleeves big enough to go over my chubs arm--the sweatshirt i got at the old artisan cheese shop on california st. 6 years ago. it has a cute little mouse on it, and it says j'aime le fromage in curlicue cursive on the back. i never get to wear this sweatshirt, and now i can't wear anything else.
ok, back to jean d'alos: he's an affineur--a dying breed--a man who takes good handmade cheeses and makes them really special by aging them with a craftsman's touch. one of the things that sticks in my mind from the lectures he gave is his acknowledgement of everything that women have done for cheese. farmhouse cheeses--specifically the comte that he is so famous for--were invented by farmwives as a way to make milk last throughout the winter. jean's wife pascale shares a lot of his work, and together they travel through the countryside to choose cheeses to bring home to treat and age in their caves...a.k.a. the catacombs beneath bordeaux. they do magical things like rub cheeses with piment d'espelette, sauternes, saffron, juniper berries, cayenne pepper, savory, and peppercorns, wrap them with burlap cloths, and wash them repeatedly with brine during the aging process. he even ages one of the crazy/famous jose bove's cheeses.
jean d'alos and his family are so very special because they still do things the old way. they give the cheeses the care and time they need to go from good to perfect. these days, most cheeses are made in huge stainless steel factories, and the art of the affineur is considered by most to be irrelavent. in this fast-paced world, who has time to wait two years for some comte (the most popular cheese in france) when you can buy a six-month one at the store for a lot less money? i encourage everyone to stop by a real cheese shop in your town sometime, and ask for cheeses that have been aged by a real affineur, or to taste artisan versions next to their factory-made counterparts. if my boo-hooing hasn't been enough to pursuade you, you will surely be able to trust your own taste buds.
though i don't recommend actually buying cheese any way other than in person, these websites are good places to learn a bit, and all of them have corresponding brick-and-mortar shops for you to check out:
formaggio kitchen (boston)
artisanal cheese (new york)
murray's cheese shop (new york)
cowgirl creamery (sf, pt. reyes, wash. dc)
zingerman's (ann arbor, mi)
