Irish Lamb Stew and bad pickup lines
“You look like Stevie Nicks.”
“Before or after the cocaine?” I retorted.
—
This exchange took place last Friday night. After a dreadfully long week, I was looking forward to a nice dinner followed by a San Francisco Ballet performance of The Nutcracker. Alone.
This was not to be.
Bay Area Rapid Transit has a way of snarling when you need it most, so I arrived in San Francisco at 4:30, too early for dinner. But a Thai restaurant was open for happy hour, so I decided on a drink before moving into the dining room for a fiery curry. From there it was an easy one-block walk to the War Memorial Opera House.
The bar wasn’t crowded. Plunking myself down, I ordered a bourbon.The bartender poured generously. Opening my book, I began to relax.
“Do you mind watching my coat for me?”
Mumbling assent, I returned to my reading. Back at his bar stool, the coat’s wearer thanked me profusely. You’dve thought that coat was the Hope Diamond. Could he buy me a drink?
I politely declined. “I’m pacing myself.”
That’s when he delivered the Stevie Nicks line.
Despite my fondness for bourbon, I spend little time in bars and am unfamiliar with the etiquette. That said, showing up during Friday night happy hour likely assumes a willingness to socialize…I think. What if the person in question has a large book open in front of her? Refuses your offer of a drink? I think my disinterest was evident. No matter; Coat saw a woman alone. And that was enough for him.
This wouldn’t have annoyed me so much if something similar hadn’t happened a week earlier, when I attended dinner and a play with a Meetup group. One of the men–I’ll call him Dale–introduced himself, then proceeded to deluge me with talk throughout the meal. He seemed harmless enough, so I thought little of it until a couple days later. Our host had a group photo taken at the meal, which he posted the next day on the Meetup site. He tagged everyone with first names, a courtesy in an overly intrusive world. For reasons known only to himself, Dale took it upon himself to edit mine, adding my full name. I changed it without a word.
—
I am not a woman who expects men to hold doors for me or adhere to a baroque code of chivalry. I am as incapable of flirting as I am disinterested. When I got married, some twenty years ago, I heaved a sigh of relief, thinking all that behind me.
Evidently “all that” is never behind anybody. If anything, I’ve only been approached more since getting married. And I don’t look a thing like Stevie Nicks.
Obviously there are men who hit on any lone woman in hopes of getting lucky. I’ve no idea what these two guys were looking for, save my undivided attention. That I didn’t want to give it mattered not.
—
My dinner plans ruined, I considered means of escape. “My friend isn’t showing up,” I said. “we were supposed to meet here.”
Mercifully, Coat took the hint. I hurried outside. At a Market Street diner, I watched the rain while eating a bad burger and greasy fries. Alone.
—
Irish Stew is wonderful to eat by yourself or with chosen company. I made this for Saturday night supper, knowing John would be hungry and cold after power soccer practice. He happily scarfed two bowls of it.
My recipe leans heavily on Diana Henry’s, from the lovely Roast Figs Sugar Snow, a book of winter recipes that until recently I wondered if I’d ever use. Today–joy of joys–not one but two heavy rainstorms are on the Northern California horizon. After four parched years, I am looking out my study window at a cold, wet, grey world. And a welcome sight it is.
I also consulted Tamasin Day-Lewis’s first cookbook, West Of Ireland Summers. This is both a memoir of an Irish childhood and a loving evocation of the native foods. It’s a bit difficult to find, but well worth tracking down.
Both Henry and Day-Lewis suggest a two-step preparation method: you begin with carrot, onion, lamb, and liquid to cover. Simmer gently for a couple hours, then add potatoes and a few fresh carrots. The result is soft but not mushy vegetables in a broth evoking adjectives like “limpid.”
About that broth: Day-Lewis simmers her lamb in chicken stock, and much as I adore the stuff, this is that rare time I urge you to use water, generously so. You’ll be rewarded with a deliciously light, lamby broth that makes a delightful leftover. We gulped ours down, leaving only a scarce bit, which I froze for another day. You’ll want to do the same.
If a two-step recipe seems like too much of a fandango just now, tossing your ingredients into a pot and simmering away stovetop for a couple hours will net a worthy result. I’ve made this a crock-pot, too, and been very pleased, but be aware that lamb, even shank, cooks surprisingly quickly: four hours in a slow-cooker ought to do it.
Irish Stew
Adapted from Diana Henry’s Roast Figs Sugar Snow and Tamasin Day-Lewis’s Summers West Of Ireland
Yield: 2-3 servings
For the first part of the recipe:
1 1 1/2-2 pound lamb shank (see note)
1 carrot, peeled and halved
1 onion, halved, skin left on
2-3 medium garlic cloves, left whole, unpeeled, lightly crushed
6 black peppercorns
Bouquet garni: parsley sprigs, bay leaf, thyme, rosemary
water
For the second part of the recipe:
2-3 large baking potatoes, peeled and sliced into large pieces
1 carrot, peeled and sliced into coins
1 onion, peeled and sliced into bite-sized pieces
1 garlic clove, peeled and minced (optional)
generous amount of salt
pepper
Allow the lamb to come to room temperature.
Place the lamb, halved carrot, halved onion, peppercorns, and bouquet garni in a large stockpot or saucepan. Add enough water to cover. Be generous, but don’t fill up to the very top of the pot.
Bring the water to a boil. This will take a good half-hour. As the water begins boiling, skim. Once it comes to the boil, turn the heat down to a brisk simmer, cover, and allow to cook 1-2 hours.
Many recipes say “gentle heat” here. I find that too low a heat won’t cook the meat, while a brisk simmer does the trick. Don’t boil wildly, but don’t leave it sitting doing nothing, either. The water should definitely be burbling away.
Somewhere between the 90 minute and two hour mark you’ll notice the lamb is tender. Remove it from the pot to a dish or bowl. I like to salvage the carrot, too.
Set a colander over your deepest bowl and strain the broth. Most of what’s left is probably pretty gungy, but if you want to fish anything out for the next step, go for it.
Welcome to step two of Irish Stew.
Now you can either get another deep pot or clean this one, which is what I do, because I’m not awash in deep saucepans. Pour the broth back into the pot. Add your peeled, sliced potatoes, your fresh carrots, and another onion. I added a shallot, because I am married to somebody who prefers them over onions. Add the optional fresh garlic. Salt liberally, as this is the first time the dish has seen salt and needs it. Pepper, too.
Bring to a lively simmer. You want to potatoes to cook through and begin to break down, thickening the broth a bit.
Now turn to your lamb, which has cooled enough to handle. Remove the meat from the bones, breaking it into bite-sized pieces. Add back to the pot. If your shanks have marrow, extricate it with a narrow spoon handle–I am assuming you haven’t marrow implements–and stir it back into the broth. Or eat it yourself. After all, you’re the cook, and at this time of year you require extra sustenance. If bits of meat insist on tenaciously clinging to the bone, toss the entire bone back into the pot until it surrenders.
Serve with additional fresh thyme and parsley.
This can be eaten with virtuous green things like salads, though in the IK, where the edge of seventeen has long been fallen over and no gypsies remain, we simply eat it with lots of bread.
Notes:
If your lamb shanks can only be purchased uncut, make sure they’ll fit in your pot. You can also buy boneless stew or even chops for this recipe. Boneless meat may need less cooking time. If you use lamb chops, slice the meat into bite-sized pieces and add the bones to the cooking broth.
Once again, you’re noticing the dearth of parsley here. Well, thyme and rosemary freeze beautifully. Parsley has a kitchen lifetime of about five minutes, and much as I like it, we can never finish bunches before they wilt.
Happy Holidays. Thank you so much for reading.
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