American Bistecca
1.24.09 San Luis to Malibu Once, at lunch in Florence with a previous husband, I ate an entire bistecca Fiorentina by myself. For those not familiar with this pyllum, a bistecca is the bone-in rib-eye, preferably from an Italian breed of white cattle called Chianina (once rare, but now enjoying a carnivore-fueled revival). In Florence, this cut, which is usually at least 2 inches thick and often weighs upwards of 3 pounds, is assumed to serve 3 to 4 diners. But I have never been shy about my meat-lust. (See “On the Trail of the True Bistecca,” archived under "Roadtrip: Italy," at left.) One defining characteristic of a bistecca---whether Chianina or not---is that it is grilled over live embers. No matter what continent your taste buds are on, this is a special-occasion dish. (What occasion prompted the lunch-time bistecca referenced above is unknown. Perhaps I was secretly celebrating the concept of divorce.)
And so we now find ourselves ready, after the most blissful, weather-blessed three weeks on the Central Coast, to commence the next phase of this winter’s adventure and head back south to the Los Angeles basin. From there, after a few days, C will head east on a big airplane and I’ll commence the still-controversial “solo” part of the winter hegira. Following the principle that any change of locations is an excuse for a party, I have elected to create an American version of bistecca for our Malibu buddies. Roadfoodie readers may recall that as we rolled into the ‘bu in the early evening of New Year’s Eve, our friend Dutch was getting ready to grill small, spineless quail on a Tuscan-style fireplace grill. (Note that the term "Tuscan" in the grill's description hails from the bistecca Fiorentina tradition.) Dutch, understandably, does not have my fireplace-cooking, um, chops, so he did not know that the wood used for cooking over an open fire must be hardwood, and it must be cured, ie at least slightly aged. A fire created from soft woods simply won’t get hot enough to create the smoky char that we underground prehistoric types crave. And so the quail results had been less than ideal, ie they were a bit underdone and lacking in a toothsome exterior crunch.
The proud keeper of a cellar of truly staggering profundity , Dutch had offered to uncork a "really serious wine" to celebrate our return: 1995 Haut Brion. C was beside himself with excitement at this upcoming mellifluous sip-ortunity. I was entrusted with engineering a repast to live up to the wine. I did not shy away from this assignment. In fact, I began to conceive of an American version of the bistecca. A hunky slab of beef to partner with the earthy-yet-refined liquid product of what was known as a “precocious” year for Haut Brion. Not, to be certain, simply a supermarket steak. At New Frontiers market in San Luis, a cache of organically-raised bone-in rib eyes was located. I expected to purchase two large steaks for four people, but as they were A. not as honkin’ big as a Florence bistecca, and B. on some fortuitous sort of loss-leader deep discount, I secured four big steaks. The marbling was creamily generous and promising, evoking a reaction in me perhaps similar to one I might have felt had I met Brad Pitt in a dusty bar when I was thirty.
Back at Robert’s casa, I bathed the meat with Casa Pau Hana's Lucca olive oil and packed it in tupperware for the four-hour journey. (Marinating excellent steaks in nothing but good olive oil for several hours is a trick I learned from the executive chef of all the Palm restaurants, when I was writing their book. The scented oil seeps deep into the pores of the steak like Crème de La Mer on the cheek of a woman-of-a-certain-age.) C stacked the rear of my poor little car with copious quantities of hard, cured oak logs. With tears, laughter, and more wrinkles than last year, we bid farewell to cousin Robert and headed south, with a case and a half of Central Coast wine, nine liters of olive oil, half a cord of oak logs, and Stella.
When we hit Malibu at 6pm, Dutch had not yet lit the fire. I’d hyped my fireplace-cooking expertise to the point that he was now worried about doing something wrong. This is not an uncommon theme in my peripatetic cooking life. So we kindled the fire and put on a few of the oak logs. Fire management is a crucial element of successful fireplace cooking, and there are no shortcuts. This meant that it took almost two hours to burn these hefty logs down to the correct cooking point: ie deep red embers covered with a thin film of grey ash with minimal flames still arising. During that time two other bottles of estimable provenance were dispatched by our festive number (four). Yet I kept my wits about me: my star turn at the fireplace was yet to come. I adjusted the grill to a mid-low level and shoved it carefully backward with my cowboy boot, so that the gridiron was suspended 5 to 6 inches above the embers. I man-handled log-grabbing tongs to place the embers evenly, waited again for the grill to get nice and hot. It was time to apply salt to the meat. I travel with a selection of salts, and rather than be predictable and go with fleur de sel, the Europe-centric choice, I elected to celebrate our shiny new president by applying injudicious amounts of Hawaiian alea salt, those chunky orange crystals imbued with a pleasantly earthy mineral note. (When salting meat to be grilled or roasted, Do Not Be Shy. As the Greek chef I have just finished working with on a cookbook says “If you think you’ve used too much salt, add more.”) I won’t address the question of whether to salt before or after grilling because it is a waste of time. Helloooo? Salt before AND after. Puh-leeze.
Timing is never exact in fireplace cooking. The fire-cook must use all of her senses to gage the food’s progress: watch for the appearance of tiny red bubbles that rise to the surface of the steak (difficult in the light of flickering flames), hear the sizzle (if it is a very active sizzle, adjust downward your expectations on the total time), feel the spring in the meat’s surface when you poke it with tongs (here, I took a moment to demonstrate the poke-test to Dutch for the first time, using the time-honored limp-wrist demo model). In the end, it took about ten minutes to cook the three steaks to medium-rare sanguinity (C’s had already been butterflied and incinerated precisely to his---albeit odd---taste; you can see his eviscerated steak at the left). And then the massively important 7-minute meat-nap, while we bustled about with wine and salad and Reidel glasses and candles....
A liberal dollop of The Green Stuff (Italian Salsa Verde, familiar to Roadfoodie readers from other meat-fests) made with parsley brought from Robert’s garden, a squeeze of Meier lemon, and more salt. The pink juices from the perfectly cooked steaks ran onto the plate, blending with the sprightly green, olive oil-nuanced sauce, and the salt, and the mild acidity of the Meier. Hunk of burnin’ love.
Sip. Saw. Bite. Repeat. Smile. It’s the little things.