Rediscovering Beefsteak Pudding

I have long been fascinated by the steamed and boiled puddings of the British Isles. My first exposure to them was via a richly spiced persimmon pudding that Mom made for Thanksgiving or Christmas. Later I experienced rich chocolate and toffee puddings, but I have long been curious about the savory puddings that served as such a staple of the pre-war British diet, so I decided to try it out.

Savory puddings are the antithesis of fast or convenience foods. For unpracticed hands, such as my own, it takes a good 45 minutes to get the pudding prepared. Then it boils for 2 ½ to 4 hours. On a cool autumn day, however, it makes for a delightful, quietly gurgling pot on the back of the stove.

The result of this cooking method, which is a sort of well controlled moist cooking method, is an intensely beef flavored filling in a flaky biscuit crust. As opposed to stews, where meats are immersed in liquid, the pudding filling is relatively dry, though there is a small amount of good beef stock included. The liquid assists in the breakdown of the connective tissues in the beef, rendering it tender and making the sauce rich and toothsome. By limiting the liquid, the flavor of the beef is not diminished, but, rather, is intensified. In a typical American style beef stew, meat is, in essence, boiled with vegetables until everything is a bit mushy. By immersing the meat in a volume of water, the beef flavor is diluted. Beef stew at its very best, such as the classic Southern French Daube Provençal, has a cooking broth that is rich in flavor so even if the beef flavor is diluted a bit, the trade-off is well worth it. The beef may lose some of its "beefiness", but it gains flavors brought by wine, stock, anchovies, olives as well as mirepoix. In the simpler beefsteak pudding we start with the same cut of beef, my personal preference is boneless chuck-eye steak which is rich in flavor and in connective tissue which contributes so well to the broth. Instead of immersing the beef in a cooking liquid, we are creating a closed cooking environment with a very limited volume of liquid. The liquid used is a good quality, rich beef stock. Other elements in the pudding are limited – they may include kidneys, mushrooms or oysters, but vegetables and starches are cooked outside the crust.

The crust itself is a biscuit-like affair. To my surprise, it cooks to a delightful pale brown despite being cooked in the water-bath. The recipe that I used was a pure butter crust, mainly because in my area butter is more readily available than suet. For the next foray I hope to get some suet and do either a true suet crust or, perhaps, part butter and part suet. That said, the butter crust came out quite nicely and lent a rich butter flavor to the finished product.

Here is the recipe that I used. It is Frankensteined from other recipes, but it worked well.

Steamed Steak & Mushroom Pudding

Ingredients:

Crust

• 2 cups (284 gm) all purpose flour
  
• 3/4 tsp (4 ml) salt
  
• 2/3 cup (160 gm) butter
  
• cold water to mix
  

 

Filling

• 2 chopped onions
  
• 500 grams chuck-eye steak (or good chuck trim, if you are close to your butcher!)
  
• 6 large white button mushrooms or assorted wild mushrooms, quartered
  
• 3/4 cup (180 ml) good beef stock
  
• 1/2 tsp (3 ml) Worcestershire Sauce
  
• 3 tbsp (45 ml) all purpose flour
  
• fresh ground black pepper and salt to taste
  

Method:

Prepare the pastry by cutting the butter into the flour and salt mixture in a bowl until it resembles fine breadcrumbs. Using a fork add cold water gradually and combine to make a dough. Do not over-knead! Sprinkle dough with flour, wrap in waxed paper and refrigerate for 30 minutes.

Sauté the onions in a little oil until tender, then combine with the beef and the mushrooms in a bowl along with the flour and dry seasonings.

Roll the rested dough out to about ¼" thickness and cut out a wedge amounting to ¼ of the total. Line a buttered pudding basin or bowl with the larger part of the pastry and fill with the beef and onion mixture.

Add the Worcestershire sauce and beef stock and top with the remaining pastry and crimp. Cover the top of the pudding with a round of parchment and then seal the top of the bowl with a layer of foil, tied in place with butcher's twine.

The bowl is placed in enough water to come half way up the exterior in a large sauce pot.

Boil for three hours, covered, being careful to keep the water about half way up the basin. When adding water, do so with boiling water so as not to lower the cooking temperature.

Remove the basin from the water and allow it to set for about ten minutes. Invert the basin on service dish, and allow it to stand for another three to five minutes. Carefully tap the basin with a metal spoon and remove from the pudding. If your pudding crust is firmly made, the pudding will stand! If your crust is too tender, it may collapse, but that should not be viewed as a defeat – the pudding will still be excellent.

Kidneys and oysters make lovely additions to a beefsteak pudding. In the case of kidneys, clean them well and leach them in milk for a few hours prior to making the pudding, and put them in with the beef. In the case of oysters, refer to Mrs. Beeton's work on British cookery – shuck half a dozen fresh oysters pour any liquid that they secrete off. Reduce the stock by the amount of the oyster liquor and proceed with the pudding. Cook the oysters enough to plump them just before you serve the pudding, and spoon a few oysters about the plate with the pudding. This is a foodie marriage made in Heaven, and it is suitably delicious for any festivity!

Steampunk

I have long been fascinated by the Edwardian cult of technology. It was the launch pad from which the twentieth century's rocket of tech was launched. It did not give rise to the automobile, but it allowed the automobile to evolve to its highest forms, both in the high and the low end. The steam locomotive advanced by leaps and bounds and science, in general, took gigantic steps forward. It was in this era that men sprouted wings of wood and silk and took to the air, and monstrous craft, lighter than the air that they glided through, were the promise of the future. Much of what Verne envisioned in Paris in the 20^th Century was, in fact, part of Paris at the dawn of the 20^th century. This was truly the golden age.

My love of this early twentieth century technology is oft perceived as a fondness of the "Steampunk" genre. It is true, as I have discussed elsewhere, Steampunk had a great deal of potential as a science fiction and design genre at one point, but it has taken a turn for the juvenile and the trashy, which, in my view, has utterly undermined any virtue that it might once have had.

I think that the genre of "Futurism", or the prototypical science fiction of writers such as Jules Verne and H.G. Wells, should not be lumped in with Steampunk, as it often is, because those were works of carefully thought out genius. Within the Steampunk genre, The Difference Engine should be considered a stand-alone work, transcending and inventing the genre as a whole. Everything else in the Steampunk genre is unmitigated crap. Garbage. Sewage. The very worst of the literary dump.

In any case, whilst on a hike in Folsom, California the other day I happened upon a magnificent old iron bridge. It was made by the San Francisco Bridge Works in 1895 and it served as the sole bridge across the American River into Folsom until 1917 when the larger, stone "Rainbow Bridge" was built. At that time the city of Folsom sold the old iron truss bridge to a buyer in Japan, but it was never shipped and it stayed in place until 1930. In that year the State of California bought it to span the Klamath River on Walker Road in Siskiyou County, and there it stayed until 1998. The City of Folsom bought the bridge back in that year, and it was reinstalled here as a foot and bicycle bridge, running next to its replacement.

What really caught my eye about this old bridge is that, from a distance, it is a purely functional span. As one draws closer to it, however, you begin to notice the Edwardian detail – the decorative iron work and the beautiful punched sign declaring the manufacture of the bridge. Once you are really close to foot of the bridge you notice the original signage: "$5 fine for driving over this bridge faster than a walk. $25 fine for driving more than 20 head of horses, 50 head of cattle or 200 sheep, hogs or goats over this bridge at one time." This is a magnificent coalition of technology, art, the modern age and the age gone by. This is what Steampunk should be about.

Corned Beef

So, there I was, surfing the net, searching for some sound advice on how to cook a corned beef in a manner such that it could be sliced into sandwich meat. See, I love corned beef sandwiches more, even, than that American Saint Patrick's Day staple, the Boston Boiled Dinner. In fact, my favorite parts of the corned beef experience are 1) corned beef and Reuben sandwiches and 2) the corned beef hash which, if you are really lucky, comes the next day. The problem with all this is that if you are going to start with a boiled dinner, and if your family consists of more than just you, you need at least two corned beefs to get all this out of it, or you need to plan for your corned beef and only get certain treats out of your one corned beef.

So, anyway, there I was, surfing the net, searching for some sound advice on corned beef cookery, and I found one of the best articles on the subject that I have ever seen in the Cleveland Plain Dealer. It is a very intelligent discussion of the topic and links to some great recipes too. I hope that they keep this article up!

UPDATE: The braised corned beef turned out to be everything I had hoped for! It was moist and delicious, but it sliced satisfactorily and held together nicely for sandwich making. We had two days of first-class Reubens and corned beef hash for breakfast on day three.

No. 39

I got a lovely email this morning from the owner of an American LaFrance roadster that is pictured in an earlier post in this blog. The car in question is labeled on its yellow petrol tank with a number 39, and it is, in my humble opinion, the best looking LaFrance roadster that I have ever seen. This car is no museum piece, however: It gets 10,000 miles of road work per year traveling across Europe. It has the home-craft quality that makes the LaFrance vehicles stand apart from other Edwardian vehicles, but the craftsmanship appears to be first rate. It is a truly beautiful expression of the Edwardian cult of technology, and it reaffirms my desire to own such a car myself one day.

As a point of interest, the Spitfire in the photos was flown by the LaFrance's owner's father during World War II.

Viva LaFrance!

My New Toy

I picked up a terra cotta garlic baker today. Now this is the kind of kitchen toy that I generally ridicule people for buying because it takes up space and it is a task that can be just as easily accomplished in any other small baking dish that you already own, but it was half price day at the thrift store, and for 75¢ I simply could not pass it up. The great thing about this particular garlic baker is that it was in brand new condition – no stains, no chips. It looks as though Aunt Faye got it for Christmas; she unpacked it and put it away around 1985. Then, when it was time to move to Florida, she sent it off to the thrift store, and from there to my kitchen.

Tonight dinner is pizza with baked garlic, wild mushrooms, whole milk mozzarella and Italian sausage! The garlic already smells wonderful.

Coffee

I like coffee. I like it brewed in the American style, not espresso. I like it hot or iced and with some cream. I do like Café au Lait in the manner in which my sainted aunt Louise made it now and again, but my normal beverage of choice is coffee.

So on a warmish summer morning a few weeks back I pulled up to my local McDonald's drive-through and, in a loud, clear and well enunciated voice I say, "Coffee, iced, with half and half. No sweetener, no flavoring ingredients except for coffee. In the cup I would like ice, coffee and half and half – that is all."

There is a pause on the other end of the speaker. "Uh." Another pause follows. "What kind of syrup would you like in that?"

I do not mind clarifying questions – it is evidence that my order will be correct when it finally arrives, so I encourage them. "I would like no syrup nor sweetener of any type, thank you; just a cup of coffee on ice with some cream."

"So, you want plain?"

"Exactly! Plain is what I want. I want coffee-flavored coffee in a large plastic cup and with a bit of half and half in it, all poured over a volume of icy-cold ice. That is all. Plain as can be!"

"Err." Another pause followed. "OK. One large plain iced coffee. That will be $3.20 at the first window. Thank you."

They got it! I was pleased and eagerly anticipating my perfectly concocted cup of coffee. I pulled around to the payment station and parted with my hard-earned coin, then pulled forward to my waiting coffee. The cup was shoved at my face with a straw grasped in the same hand, I got a bonus "thank you" and the window snapped shut.

There was a line behind me, but I took a second to insert the straw into my sacred morning beverage to get that first sip. . .

And it was sweet.

I knocked on the service window and the service provider behind it shoved a bag that smelled of trans-fats and despair at me. I spoke around it, "That is not mine. . . I wanted coffee with no sweetener in it."

"It says on the screen that you want your ice coffee plain. That is plain."

"I specified that I wanted it with nothing in the coffee but cream."

"No ice?"

"Yes, ice! I want cold coffee, half and half over ice in a large plastic cup."

"No sweetener?"

"No. No sweetener."

"Do you want some sugar or artificial sweetener packets with that?"

"No, thank you. The coffee will do."

I did, eventually, get my coffee.

Our friend Michy sent this video to my darling wife and me. It reminded me so much of me that I spit iced coffee with half and half and no sweetener all over my screen. Do not play this around the young or the easily offended.

Canned Salmon

I have come to realize in recent years that I deeply despise canned salmon.

In my sainted mother's pantry, canned salmon was something to be revered. I was allowed, even encouraged, to make lunch out of the tuna, but never, ever, the salmon. It was kept for things like salmon loaf, or, if we were very lucky, mom would make salmon croquettes, which was a summertime treat on the hot afternoon with a pitcher of lemonade and homemade tartar sauce. I still have fond memories of those things!

So, recently, I decided that it would be a good idea to recapture that particular part of my childhood. I found a recipe that was essentially similar to Mom's, and I headed off to the Bel Air for a supply of salmon. I wanted the good stuff, but I was certain that Mom's cans were labeled "Pink Sockeye Salmon", so I shied away from the more expensive cans of "Red Salmon". I went with a respectable national brand, not something I found t the dollar store.

When I got it home, and had my mise en place, en place, I cracked open the can to start the process. 25% of the product in the can was bone and skin. Now, I have read that it is acceptable to devour the smaller bones found in canned salmon, but, frankly, I don't want to. And the skin is just icky.

I was looking forward to a product akin to Bumble Bee Solid Pack White Tuna in Spring Water: clean, salty, faintly flavorless. It is for a recipe that is a product of Midwestern ingenuity, and I did not expect "good" quality salmon, per se, but neither did I expect this chum.

For the next go-round, I plan to buy a bit heavy when getting salmon filets for the grill, and I am going to cook an extra pretty well-done, in order to simulate the doneness of the canned product, and I am going to attempt the croquettes again using that as the base. Report to follow.