Offal! Offal! Offal!

The great joy of innards. Recipes. An amazing vintage menu. And a spice I can't live without.

I came upon one of the more curious menus in my collection recently and since it was served this very week, it seemed like a good time to share it.

This “Inner Dinner” featured a wild array of offal dishes, beginning with brain beignets and breaded tripe (tablier de sapeurs), and continuing on to pig’s feet, blood sausage, tripe soup, sweetbreads and kidneys.

It was arranged by the foodiest people I’ve ever met, Mannie and Willette Klausner. (I met them in the early eighties when I wrote an article about food-obsessed people for the Los Angeles Times. I called them “foodies” and many people believe I coined the term. I did not; Paul Levy and Ann Barr who wrote The Foodie Handbook in 1985, were the first to use it.)

I won’t be going to Los Angeles this winter, which means that I am experiencing a serious case of boat noodle deprivation. When I’m there I spend a lot of time at the barebones Saap Coffee Shop eating this magical elixir. (And yes, there are a couple of places in New York that make boat noodles, but they’re a tame bunch compared to the murky funk of the Saap version.) Order it with everything and you get blood, tripe, liver, tendon, fried pork skin and mountains of chiles tangled into a mess of noodles and herbs. It’s wonderful stuff that always makes me glad to be alive.

But I’ll console myself with a meal at Gopchang Story BBQ. An astonishing array of offal is on offer; you can read Robert Sietsema’s article about it here.

Speaking in Tongue

It's not pretty.

But have you ever tasted tongue? Forget what it looks like. Forget what it is. Close your eyes and take a bite.  The texture is stunningly soft and extremely seductive. The flavor is mild and barely meaty. There's nothing gnarly about the way it eats: even the most offal-resistant person can fall in love with tongue.

Should you have friends who are sophisticated offal eaters you can serve it in all its gruesome glory. Which is what I did to celebrate my friend Peter’s birthday. He and I both love this deliciously soft and seductive meat. And while it made almost everyone else we know remarkably squeamish I have to admit that kind of delighted us.

To begin, I braised it, cooking the whole tongue slowly in water, herbs, and onions for a long time (about 6 hours). When it was entirely soft, I gently removed it from its bath and peeled off the outer membrane. Even as a child I found this extremely satisfying; it shrugs so easily out of its coat.  Then I put the peeled tongue back into the pot and let it cool a bit, pulling it out just as the guests arrived. I set it on a platter and watched the reaction: most people went visibly pale.  A cooked tongue retains all its essential tongueness. 

Peter, however, was happy. I sliced the tongue and served it with a rich and pungent sauce gribiche.  The meat was soft, tender, delightfully beefy. Sadly, few friends were game enough to take a taste. 

Their loss. Tongue keeps well. I wrapped it in plastic and left it to brood among the onions and the eggs in the refrigerator for a few days. 

Then, when nobody was looking, I chopped it up, slicked a pan with a bit of oil, and crisped the cubes of tongue. I set them on warm corn tortillas, covered them with freshly made salsa, added a few strips of avocado, a squirt of lime, a sprinkling of cilantro and passed them around.

“What are these delicious tacos?” everyone cried.  “What kind of beef is this?  These are the tastiest tacos we’ve ever eaten.”

“Oh,” I replied casually, “they’re a classic Mexican dish.  Tacos de lengua. So glad you like them!”

Tongue Two Ways.

Braised Tongue with Sauce Gribiche
1 cow’s tongue, 2 to 3 pounds
1 onion, cut in half
1 carrot peeled
1 stalk celery
Few stems of parsley
1 bay leaf
Salt
Peppercorns

Put all the ingredients in a large pot, cover completely with water, and bring it to a boil.  Meanwhile, cut a piece of parchment paper just large enough to cover the entire surface of the pot.

When the water arrives at a boil, turn it down to a simmer, cover with the parchment and cook for 4 to 6 hours, until the tongue has gone completely soft and tender. Add more water as needed.

Life the tongue from the pot and set it on a cutting board.  This is the fun part; with your fingers, pull the top membrane off the tongue until it is completely naked.  Put the tongue back into the liquid until you’re ready to serve it.  (It’s good hot or at room temperature. You can also, once it has cooled, wrap it in a zip lock bag and keep it for a few days in the refrigerator.)

Strain the liquid and save it for stock.

Slice the tongue and top it with this sauce.

Sauce Gribiche
2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
5 tablespoons olive oil
2 tablespoons white wine or cider vinegar
2 tablespoons capers
4  cornichons, chopped
2 hard boiled eggs, finely chopped
3 tablespoons chopped parsley
Salt, pepper

Mix the first six ingredients. Add salt and pepper, and taste for seasoning. Just before serving,  mix in the parsley.

Tongue Tacos
1 cooked tongue
Salsa
Fresh limes
Avocado slices
Corn tortillas
Cilantro

Rougly chop the cooked tongue into half inch or so cubes.

Slick a skillet with a bit of neutral oil (you don’t need much; there’s a lot of fat in a tongue), allow it get hot and cook the tongue until the pieces are browned and crisp.  Season with salt and pepper.

Serve on tortillas with accompaniments.

Some Tasty Tripe

If you’re ready to be adventurous, here’s a great recipe for Trippa Alla Fiorentina.

And Gabrielle Hamilton’s fantastic Spicy Stewed Tripe Scallions.

A few great books on the subject….

Testicles is one of the favorite books in my library. If you know a serious offal eater, I’m sure they’ll find it equally delightful.

Fergus Henderson’s Nose to Tail Cooking should be in every offal-eater’s library.

Chris Cosentino’s Offal Good: Cooking From the Heart with Guts is another winner.

And the book that introduced me to the entire subject of foods generally shunned by Americans: Unmentionable Cuisine. Written by a professor of epidemiology at UC Davis, it made an indelible impression on me when I first read it in 1988. I once wrote an article about an unmentionable cuisine dinner where Schwabe fed us insects, ants, cow eyes, brains and - most exotic to me at the time - guinea pig. Alas, I can’t find it.

In 1991, when we were in charge of the Food Section of the Los Angeles Times, Laurie Ochoa and I decided to do an entire section called The Fifth Quarter, focusing exclusively on offal.

Laurie wrote a wonderful article that began with a quote from Angelo Pellegrini’s The Unprejudiced Palate. (If you haven’t read that seminal book, what are you waiting for?)

“Why are these vital organs of the animal not generally eaten? One reason, certainly, is precisely that they are vital. They are associated with urine, blood, excrement and the gastric functions of the animal. The average American clutches his hot dog and turns from them in horror. Verily, ignorance is bliss.”

Laurie went on to quote Claude Levi-Strauss, Elizabeth David (“In American cooking, everything that can be thrown away is thrown away.”) - and a great many chefs. You can read her article here.

I wish you could smell the fragrance of this gorgeous yelllow-green pollen, which is filling the air all around me. This jar's not new – it's been sitting in my spice cupboard for more than a year – but the scent is so powerful and fresh I can easily dream myself onto a Tuscan hillside, with fennel spilling down the mountainside around me.

I got my fennel pollen from Dario Checchini in Panzano, but it’s now fairly easy to find in this country. One great source: La Boite.

I thought I should offer something this week to those who can’t abide innards. And fennel pollen, with its warm anise aroma, is my favorite jar in the spice cupboard. It has an untamed wildness that improves so many dishes. Dust it onto chicken as it goes into the oven, or onto lamb chops just before serving. Sprinkle it into a pasta sauce to make it brighter. Fennel pollen loves goat cheese, it goes gorgeously with a bit of orange zest, and it's a great addition to an olive oil pound cake. It tames broccoli rabe, too, adding a sweet sultry note to the bitter greens.