Cookbooks

We champion this generalization: gentlemen eat their beef with steak sauce—the brown type, thick and sharp. Although we support Heinz ketchup and we think it calls for respect and pride, we don’t use bottled steak sauce. Here is an easy and tasty alternative. It is delicious with Filet de Boeuf (page 248).

A great way to maintain matrimonial bliss is not to make classic stock in your house. Do this one instead. It’s another one-Creuset wonder where everything goes in the oven. It’s enough for a few recipes, plus you can eat the meat with pickles and mustard for a classic French snack. You can use a bit more meat if you have it. This is more of a guideline than a recipe. Remember that when you make a stock, it has to look like you would want to eat the meat at any stage—that is, don’t use old meat or lean cuts. You want that marrow taste and that thick jelly feel.

This is what we imagine old Scots at the turn of the century in the Montreal’s famed Golden Square Mile neighborhood ate for breakfast: steak, kidneys, kippers, and a few eggs. After a gin festivity, it would be exactly what it takes to get you back on your feet. It’s delicious with a little watercress salad.

Montreal institutions like Gibbys and Moishes have been selling their own classic steak spice for decades. Here’s our take on the Montreal steak spice. This is an all-purpose seasoning used in many Montreal-style beef, pork, and steaky fish dishes.

Hot, it’s beef stew. Cold, it’s jellied beef stew.

If you’re a fervent practitioner of the nose-to-tail thing, you probably scoff at tenderloin, favoring instead oxtail or udders. In a hypothetical dystopian foodist nation, animals will be bred in humane ways to produce more spleens, livers, and guts than loins and legs. No joke. The meat business wanted pig with more bacon and less shoulder a few years ago, a disturbing enough thought. It’s a common dichotomy and funny somehow. The rich feast on what was once peasant food. Think about it: risotto, polenta, offal, eggs are everywhere. Once again, we don’t omit ourselves from the criticism. In fact, it’s the stuff that keeps us up at night. The fillet comes from the small end of the tenderloin, from a muscle inside the ribs called the psoas major, which reportedly has the function of providing the quadruped with an efficient humping motion. We put filet mignon on the blackboard, get sick of it, and a week later put it back on the board. Cut into thick chunks, hog tied, and roasted, tenderloin is great. One of my favorite dishes, beef Stroganoff, is also best made with tenderloin (I omitted it from this book for fear of being ostracized by the cool chef gang). Also, the River Café Raw Beef (tenderloin, too) is still one of my favorite cookbook recipes.

Sauce Vin Rouge is our mother-ship sauce, good on all matters of protein. When seasoning this sauce, or any sauce, keep in mind that it won’t be consumed like a soup, so go ahead and be relatively liberal with the salt.

Here is another of our kitchen staples, which tastes like an extraction of the essence of onion soup. Awesome on liver, veal, beef, or even schnitzel, it’s the taste of winter in Paris.

At Joe Beef, we mix up the tartares on the menu, sometimes offering the classic French recipe and other times the zesty Italian. This is the one we prepare at home the most. A nice alternative to carpaccio, it’s a great summer tartare.

When we first started cooking, beef was like tuna is today: incorrect to buy and incorrect to sell. But over the last couple of years, beef is finding its place again, especially with the burger courant sweeping the continent. We’ve used sirloins from large companies, but doing so feels a bit like cheating on my wife with a lady boy: part guilty, part disgusting, and yet I still buy it. Since we began purchasing more carefully aged and selected strip loins, this is now one of our favorite cuts. It is tasty, the perfect size, monolithic. The method here is specific to this strip loin, cooked medium-rare. Check the temperature chart (see page 242) for different levels of doneness. Remember that dry-aged meat tends to cook much faster because of its lower moisture content, so act accordingly. And when it comes to cooking, the weight of the steak does not matter as much as the thickness (our steaks each weigh about 21 to 22 ounces/610 to 640 grams), which is why you see only the thickness here. Also, the middle of the steak is where you can see doneness, not on the tip, so insert an instant-read thermometer through the side to the center to verify it is ready. If you must, you can also cut the steak in two to check doneness. Remember, though, you can always cook longer, but not “de-cook.”

We owe it to Riad Nasr and Lee Hanson at Balthazar for the revival of the plat pour deux in restaurants. It’s great for the passionate cook, and great for the passionate diner, as it denotes a more willing, yet easygoing approach. Nicolas Jongleux used to do a guinea hen for two, the breast on the bone with jus truffé, in fine china; vegetables in a silver casserole dish; and a second service of legs with squash gnocchi and mimolette cheese. It was beautiful food made perfect by the antique tableware. Alain Ducasse once said that if you go with a date to the cinema, you don’t go to different movies; the same applies to dining. If you and your companion agree, it can be heaven. Why another book with a côte de boeuf? Because this is the Joe Beef côte de boeuf. A côte de boeuf is a majestic cut. It is 2 1/2 pounds (1.2 kilograms) of natural, aged, carefully butchered steer goodness. In our mind, a côte de boeuf has to be cut by hand, leaving the bone intact. (One, if not the main, difference between European and American butchery is the use of the meat saw. In North America, the cuts are based on sawing parts; in Europe, the cuts are made by knife, every muscle separated.) At Joe Beef, the side dishes keep coming when you order a côte de boeuf: green salad, fries, horseradish, red wine sauce, and marrowbones. This, in addition to the quality of the meat, is why we cannot justify lowering the price.

On the first year of the garden, we planted six tomato plants, one smallish row of lettuce that bolted overnight, and, just for fun, a dozen wormwood plants (Artemisia absithium). Of course, by then the absinthe craze had faded and the silver-slotted spoons were long gone. It didn’t take much for us to soak way too much of those plants (in our houses, of course) in a jug of alcool (grain alcohol), then correct the awful taste of wormwood with a full bottle of pastis. Man, it was strong, and it worked, too. A few years ago, we gave Martin Picard at Au Pied de Cochon a pickle jar full of absinthe; when we later visited the restaurant, about a thousand dollars in cash was sitting in the liquid and people were drinking it right out of the jar. Disgusting. Picard would add more booze when the level dropped. So you have this huge jar of plants and money just sitting there with the top on. Every season we try to concoct a better mix—at home, of course. You’ll need a gram scale for this recipe.

When we opened Joe Beef, we didn’t have a patio. We had a patch of wasteland where only burdock grew. Not many people know what burdock is, though they may have seen or eaten the roots in vegan or Japanese restaurants. Its Latin name is Arctium lappa and it is a biennial plant, which means that the first year it makes a long taproot and hairy rhubarblike leaves. It survives the winter because of its reserve of food, and then the second year, it bears flowers, then fruits. These itchy little clingers stick to your pants. It’s a treasure chest of medicinal virtue for lungs, hair, and bowels. We didn’t know what to do with it. But the four leathery-skinned Italian men who came to lay our concrete slab knew what to do with it. In fact, it took them four hours to lay the slab, half of which was spent carefully pulling and collecting the burdock roots. They said they would wash it when they got home, then steep it in red wine and consume it as a tonic. So now every year, we send the newbies to dig for burdock in the fertile grounds of the Liverpool House backyard and make a few bottles of that tonic.

This recipe, aka Kälte Glühwein trinken für Freunde im Sommer, was inspired by a box of German mulled wine: it depicted a blond, deliriously happy family sitting down to a few cups of this mulled tea. Serve in highball glasses.

This is more of an appetizer than a cocktail. What’s the reason behind the size? Hunger, gluttony, and insecurity are but a few. Serve in a large glass or a Mason jar.

Here’s a short, delicious, and lethal concoction. Good when you’re in search of instant numbness. Serve in a lowball glass.

This drink started as a vinaigrette for razor clams, and it still is. But with scotch, really cold, it’s awesome. If you have a juicer, it’s the best. If you don’t, a blender and a sieve will do. Chervil is one of those herbs that you can’t cook, and if you buzz it in syrup, for example, you will end up with something more akin to soup Florentine than a cocktail component. Serve in a lowball glass.

Mixing beer and tomato juice is classic; some people call it a “soup.” This is an overlooked drink perfect for brunch, lunch, and hot summer afternoons. Molson brewing has been in the Old Port since 1786. It’s the beer we grew up on. It’s a beer for the tavern, Sundays, camping, and hockey. We love microbreweries, but a cold Molson Export, the Habs, and a hockey-arena smoked meat sandwich is the holy trinity. Serve in a tavern glass.

People are always complaining about Manischewitz. We think it’s tasty and has applications at the bar. This is our tribute to our financiers Jeff, Ronnie, and David. Serve in a Champagne coupe.

A few years ago, we had a server and a bartender who were in the middle of a “cleanse.” We tried their sordid-looking “drink” and decided to make our own, with booze, of course. Serve in a lowball glass.