In some ways, there was even more at stake today. I had stayed late yesterday to start my Boeuf Bourguignon, and in so doing had placed considerable stock by getting it right. If the wheels came off today, I would be in a bit of a hole. I tried to keep things simple on my order of work, though I have a couple of extra bits to do, including making puff pastry, which is rather time consuming. I get in just before nine, get the beef on the go and prep the extra bits that go in at this stage. There are two key measures of the dish - how well the beef is cooked, and how well it is seasoned. Obviously there are several other areas one could balls up, but these are the biggies. Get them right and you won't have too many complaints.
I nail them all. When you think the beef is ready - soft and tender and melting in your mouth, let it go another couple of minutes. Fortune, as I have said so many times in this blog now, favours the brave. (One of the causes of my derailment yesterday was the Crème Anglaise that took all day to thicken. Why did it take all day? Because the heat was too low. Balls out, turn up the heat and get on with it). Likewise the seasoning - when you think you are there, just a little bit more, and suddenly the whole thing transforms. So what do I feel when I taste my finished dish? Pride? Relief? Well I feel a bit smug, obviously, and vindicated for my efforts last night. But most of all, I just feel glad that I have something nice to eat for lunch.
I got to practice a bit more butchery tonight. It is difficult - you can watch other people doing it and look at diagrams, but there is no substitute for getting stuck in yourself if you want to learn how to do it. I have to take my time (not something that comes naturally). I have a whole lamb to deal with. Not quite whole, since his shoulders have been removed, but I have the rest. Firstly, I saw across his back, in the dip at the end of the loin and where the legs begin to fatten out. (Across the top of his arse basically). With the legs detached, I divide them in two by sawing through the spine and tailbone. Each in turn, I trim away the tailbone, and then set about removing the aitchbone. This is relatively simple, but somewhat ponderous. I feel like the archetypal blind man in a dark room looking for a black cat. That isn't there. Except it is there, and I find it. And doing it is great fun. It is strangely relaxing - in the way that some people might find doing the Times Crossword relaxing I guess. With the bone out I trim up and tidy the leg before tying it up.
Next, the ribcage. First of all I remove the fillets. Now I need to split the cage in two, which means coming down either side of the spine and breaking through the ribs. Which means using a cleaver. There are a few nice shiny new ones lying about, but the weapon of choice is an old wooden handled one that wouldn't look out of place in my Dad's garden shed. You have to work down both sides together, since if you remove one completely it becomes impossible to stabilise the animal for the removal of the other. Scott starts me off on my wrong side (he is left handed). Then I take the cleaver. My thumb and fingers are dangerously close, but they have to be. I hack away tentatively to begin with, without really getting anywhere. I make a small saw cut to get myself started. It is a bit weird - the temptation is to chop brutally and maniacally. But that doesn't help. You need short strokes, arcing the blade back in towards yourself, so you cut through the bone rather than just splintering it.
By the time I finish it looks like the blind guy has been chasing the black cat with a hatchet. But job done, I have two racks of ribs to prepare. I trim and clean, cutting away any excess fat. I remove the short ribs and remove a few inches of flank, to enable me to replace the fillet and roll and tie the end of the loin. I then choose my line and cut across the ribs, which creates the biggest bastard job of them all - cleaning the protruding bones. You scrape and scrape and scrape. My hands are bloodied and the skin rough and stained, but I am secretly loving every second of it. Time is ticking away and around me the other guys are beginning to clear up. Someone offers to do the other rack for me, but I decline. I'm having too much fun.
Sat here in the conservatory, the weather having taken a turn for the worse, I look at my hands. How different they appear now. Once they were soft and smooth. Now the lines are dark, stained with blood. I scrub them all the time as filthy hands are not appealing in a cook. But it doesn't make a difference. I have half a thumbnail on one hand, and cuts and nicks all over the other, from shards of splintered bone and the odd one from the knife. What hairs remained have been burnt off. The fingertips are beginning to harden and desensitise to the heat. And the smell of meat, of a butchers shop, has survived several washes. I'd scrub them again before I go to bed but it won't make a difference. Even great Neptune's ocean wouldn't wash them clean.
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