Apparently, I’m eating for 30.
Most Americans barely eat a lamb chop a year. Last year, our consumption dropped below a pound of lamb per person for the first time since such record-keeping began. Since a quick review of grocery bills and dinners out show that I ate at least 30 pounds by myself, that means at least 29 of you ate no lamb at all.
This is no way to live, and we are here to help. This easy roast, which feeds a crowd, is the perfect introduction. (Although a grilled, unadorned lamb chop works well with steak lovers, and a well-made lamb stew is a glorious thing.)
We start here and now because lamb has ancient connections to Easter, Passover and springtime in general. In preindustrial agriculture, most lambs were born in the spring, and the male ones — of whom few are needed on farms — were quickly butchered for spring feasts. Now is also the moment because lamb’s earthiness is ideally paired with sharp spring vegetables, like asparagus, dandelion greens and artichokes, and because lamb makes a welcome change from winter’s turkeys and roast beef at the new season’s holiday dinners.
So, why the resistance to it? One possibility: In the last century, standard cookbooks like “Joy of Cooking” told cooks to roast lamb to an internal temperature of 175 to 180 degrees. This is an excellent recipe for a chew toy, and it may explain why many people believe they don’t like lamb — they’ve never had it done right. Equally, the blood-rare lamb served by some meat-centric restaurants can be alarming and stringy. (The sweet spot for lamb doneness, a comfortably large range, is anywhere from 140 to 155 degrees, tested after resting; a feature of the lamb leg is that its different muscle clusters cook differently, so you can serve everything from medium-rare to medium-well-done meat from a single roast.)
Or it could be that the word most associated with the taste of lamb is “gamy,” which is a pity because good lamb does not have the liverish flavor associated with wild game. Instead, it has a savory, mineral taste, like that of a raw oyster or aged steak.
The particular genius of this recipe, adapted from the British chef Simon Hopkinson, is that it brings lushness to that minerality with two ingredients: anchovies and butter. A thick coat of anchovy butter goes on the meat right before cooking. And the addition of garlic and rosemary is a no-brainer in the kitchen — those strong, piney aromatics set off the meat.
Mr. Hopkinson grew up on the traditional Sunday roast when garlic was considered exotic, fresh rosemary was unheard-of and pairing anchovy with British lamb would have been grounds for treason. But one of the first dishes he mastered when he entered professional kitchens at age 19, he said, was a sizzling beefsteak topped with a melting pat of anchovy butter, a dish known in the French canon as Tournedos Morateur.
“We never know how ideas and recipes trickle into our minds,” he said. “I thought I’d probably stolen the anchovies from Elizabeth David, but I’ve scoured her books, and I can’t find it anywhere.”
The unlikely marriage of anchovies and lamb works subtly and beautifully, most commonly in central Italy. “I personally think it dates back to Roman times, and the use of garum,” the Romans’ liquid essence of salted anchovies, said Elizabeth Minchilli, an expert in Roman food and the author of “Eating Rome,” which is being published in April. Like Asian fish sauce and MSG, she said, “anchovy adds the umami element, as well as salt,” which makes roast meat so satisfying. (If you can’t stomach the anchovies but still want to take a stab at lamb cookery, mustard makes a fine, savory substitute.)
In this recipe, the anchovy butter caramelizes the outside of the meat as it roasts, and melts into the pan to enrich the drippings. “I want those juices to be swish and elegant,” Mr. Hopkinson said. White wine and butter, not stock and flour, are the foundational flavors of his easy jus.
Click here to continue reading.
SOURCE: N.Y. Times – Julia Moskin