Brooklyn Grubber

Pied de cochon farci (as they say in the Dordogne)

My fridge is still stuffed full of all sorts of smoked meats, salted meats, bloods and animal bits leftover from a trip to Chinatown. I had to get eating that pigs trotter (with hock attached) so tonight I thought I'd flex the old culinary muscle and try to make crispy stuffed pigs feet. I had a lot of trouble finding a suitable recipe. The only one I did find was in a tatty old Gordon Ramsay book I had in the bookcase. And he makes it sounds so simple.

In fact, I decided to make it tonight, last night. It does take some time, patience and lots of fucking around with different stages. The first three laborious tasks, you must complete the day before. First I soaked the pied for 12 hours, or overnight. This gets rid of the blood. Secondly, I had to skin and debone the damn thing. This was a bit daunting. I vaguely remember watching a butchery show back in the UK where some grimy farmer had the skin off and bone out in mere minutes. OK, he's a dab hand at it, but I reckon the bastard must have cheated, or there was some great editing going on. It took me about 1 hour. I turned the foot 'palm up' on a board and cut all the way down to the second 'knuckle'.

Then, by stretching and pulling the skin away, scoring with a knife as you go, you can take the skin off to the toes. I located the joints, sliced through the cute little pig 'palms' and cut as far down into the 'wrist' as I could. (You may think I'm using terms we would associate with the human hand but in reality, pig feet and human hands, they're not much different. When I thought about my own anatomy while wielding my boning knife, it became a whole lot easier.) Now came the tricky part. I had to wiggle the knife in between what felt like two rounded pebbles in Porky's wrist and slice away as much tendon as possible. By pushing the hand as far back as it would go, I was able to expose the really chunky joints in the wrist, and there is a pesky little tendon that connect the whole hand to the wrist. Once I twisted and twisted it over and again, I just knicked at it and the foot sprang free from the bone. I now had an empty glove puppet type thing, and a huge hunk of bone and meat, both ready for the braising pot.

Ramsay recommends braising the skin and toes for 3 hours, and the hock and bone for about 2. I gathered up a large Dutch oven, my mirepoix, herbs, oilve oil, stock and got to work. Just a simple braise, you know the stages...Don't you? I removed the meat and let it cool in some of the stock. I returned the skin to the oven for another hour. I shredded the cooling meat, and chilled the ham stock to form a jelly. The skin was plucked from the heat and after some cooling, laid flat on a chopping board. Ramsay reckons you need about four sheets of pig foot skin altogether to form a proper
sausage. I had only one. So it was going to be a small sausage indeed. Well fuck it, I just need one for me, right? I had all sorts of trouble getting the shredded meat to stay in the thick skinned casing. With the aid of a sushi rolling kit and some clingfilm, I was able to get something accomplished. Not quite the result I was expecting, but I didn't expect miracles first time around.

I did have a lot of meat leftover, which I was able to mix with some Dinosaur BBQ sauce. I toasted some wholemeal buns, drenched them in jellied ham stock and made one of the greatest impromptu pulled pork sarnies the World has ever seen. I loved it all - Greasy, tasty, spicy and wholly satisfying considering all the pissing about.

The resulting tiny sausage will have to wait until tomorrow before the frying as it needs to chill in the fridge in clingfilm, so it adopts a true sausage shape. It won't take much eating. It's a slighty anticlimactic moment considering all the effort I put in. I did manage two pork sarnies out of it though, some totally fabulous pork stock and the bits of skin I had leftover will make scratchings or chicharrones. All I was left with was a pile of bone and some gristly bits. Tomorrow I will know about true success or failure.

          

       

       
                     

Casimir

When dining on the Lower east Side, one is faced with some tough decisions. Should we try that new place a couple of blocks up to road from 7B where we always end of having a pint? Or should we check out the steak at Buenos Aries? I’ve got it! What about going back to Casimir? In the end, we always arrive at a similar conclusion. Sure, I know it’s lame to ignore new culinary offerings in the area, but I just can’t resist the place. Opening a few years ago to mixed reviews, Casimir has come of age and has a special place in the hearts of all those hipsters and ex-pat French living on Avenue B. For one of our own Thursday Clubbers, the place is the centre of his universe. Jason practically lives there.

There is something to be said for having a ‘local’ and ‘regular’ restaurant spot, where the staff greet you by name and promise a fine table if you’ll just sit at the bar for a few minutes and drink this free beer and wine. This is a typical welcome for Jason, and sticking to him like glue means that I can also benefit from his relationship. We were 5-strong on this particular evening, and we did have to wait a while before being seated. It was 9.15 on Saturday night the place was packed out as you might expect.Our waitresses exhibited all that is good and great about excellent service. They’re attractive, they know what specials chef is promoting, what they have run out of and can recommend substitutes from a fine bistro menu. The food is classic French bistro fayre, and in all the years Jason has been visiting Casimir, I don’t think he’s had a bad meal from them. Nor have I for that matter. And the general concensus after we left the place full-bellied and all fired up on French red plonk 2 hours later was very positive indeed. “Wow, Man, that food was excellent. How do they make it taste SO good?” Everybody loved the dimly lit dining room and the din and clatter of lots of happy people chowing down together, with a muted soundtrack of something French and jazzy…A touch clichéd perhaps, but no matter. The food sings louder than the speakers.

I had the salmon tartare, (I did want oysters but they’d had a run on them and they were out) a fabulous thick pink dollop of finely chopped salmon, capers and parsley with extra capers and red onion on the side.Casimir serves this with gaufrette potatoes, which I scoffed before I even thought about the salmon. They were homemade and I could have eaten a basket of the damn things. The salmon was, as usual, beautifully fresh and creamy and those salty little capers seasoned it well. My companions ate salads and soups, I must have been so interested in my dish that I paid their first courses little attention.For my main, I always choose a signature dish of Casimir’s - A rich and spicy boudin noir, with apples and mash. What a classic! I have forever been a fan of these blood sausages, and each time I eat them I am reminded of my first taste when I was a kid – It blows me away - Meaty, spicy, succulent, and full of artery-clogging goodness. 

Aleesha had chef special almond-crusted seared tuna with potato salad and a sort of Asian-soy sauce. We all looked very stuffed and happy by the time the desserts arrived. Casimir’s pastry chef knows their stuff. Apple tarte tatin, a stunning crème brulee and a rich chocolate tart arrived at our table with 5 spoons, courtesy of Eric (the owner) and the staff.  With aching bellies and salivating mouths there was no way we were seeing this stuff go unattended and even those poor souls on diets grabbed some silverware and got stuck in. A fine finish.

Sure, we had some preferential treatment that night because of who we were with, but I do believe Casimir to be a solid neighbourhood eatery with really decent food to offer, whoever you may be. It is affordable too, and they thoroughly deserve such loyal clientele.