Charcuterie_ The Craft of Salting, Smoking, and Curing - Michael Ruhlman [6]
“The last time I went to Italy, I took the whole family, and Mom. Eight of us (otto). Hot late afternoon, too long a day, everyone cranky, and we’re walking around a little town on Lake Como. My wife, Julia, can’t find the boys, ages four and six, who are running around somewhere; Alex and Carmen are arguing; my oldest daughter, Alana, is complaining. ‘Julia,’ I said, ‘find the boys, let’s just get something to eat.’ Very thin nerves all of us. I ducked into the first place I saw, a tiny place, and said to the proprietario, “Otto?” He immediately shoved two of the five tables together, Julia arrived with the boys, and I noticed that a kid behind the counter had begun slicing. We were still edgy, the kids jostling for the seats they wanted—big headache—and then even before we all sat down, the owner put down a plate with a heap of marinated olives in the center and translucent slices of salami, cubes of mortadella and cured ham, and, on the side, some good bread. It was halting. The way the sunlight hit the fat of the dried meats, the way it glistened, the beauty of the meat. The table was silent. We ate everything. The kids ate everything. All the tension evaporated, gone.
“That moment clinched it for me. Clinched everything I knew about charcuterie and everything I didn’t know but need to. It was love, baby! Their love, our love, my love. They welcomed us with a plate of charcuterie, and it made all the difference.”
This book explores those techniques of preservation and economy that are scarcely used in today’s home kitchens but that result in food that nourishes on many levels. The food is not only delicious to eat, it’s also satisfying on an intellectual level. Understanding the culinary mechanisms that cause these great transformations—a plain piece of pork belly becomes bacon or pancetta, ground pork and salt becomes saucisson sec, pork shoulder and liver become a country pâté—is a reward in itself. And it’s satisfying on a craft level as well, mastering the physical techniques to achieve these transformations.
This food takes some care, some thought, and some common sense. One of the reasons charcuterie techniques are seldom used in either the home kitchen or the average restaurant kitchen is that they’re a lot of work. It takes many steps over several days to prepare a confit, for instance. Why not just throw the duck in the oven and roast it? Two or three hours, presto, delicious duck. Crispy skin, succulent meat, maybe a nice sauce. Hard to beat that, so why work so hard?
Because all those steps required for a confit, during each day, are a good thing, are enriching. It’s satisfying work if you do it right. To coat the duck pieces with the dry rub is visually appealing; you begin tasting the final dish in your mind. When you wash the dry rub off the duck pieces the next day, you squeeze the flesh and feel how dense it has become overnight from the action of the salt. As the cooking begins, the smell fills the kitchen, and the sight of the duck submerged in the cooking fat is beautiful. As the duck cools, the fat, no longer liquid, gradually obscures the duck. The cooled duck fat is especially unctuous and creamy, a pale deep ivory color. Then, after the duck has chilled in the fridge for a while, and it’s a pleasure to see it there whenever you open the door, you remove it from the fat and pop it in the oven. The skin will become very, very crisp, and the meat will be rich and deeply flavored.
Part of doing a recipe like that well means choosing the right time to do it so that you can take your time. Don’t try to squeeze the work in between errands. Charcuterie preparations seem easier when you spread them out. If you try to make a pâté twenty minutes before you have to pick up the kids or be at an appointment, you’ll be frustrated,