Pot Roast

Pot roast: how hard can it be? People have been roasting things in pots for millenia, and if some prehistoric cavewoman could master braised mastodon over a fire that she wasn't 100% sure how to restart, then surely I could conquer a chuck roast. Or so I told myself when I purchased my first roast. The sad truth was, that particular roast conquered me. After two hours in the oven, it turned out dry, tough, and tasteless. The Mastodon probably tasted better. Roast:1 Me:0.

Clearly I needed tutelage in the art of the slow-cooked roast. So my second attempt was with the "help" of a Southern Living Cookbook (a Christmas gift from my mom) and a crockpot. I'm sure that the magazine meant well, but the recommended salted water (!) as a braising liquid was both too little and too bland: maybe it tasted better than the mastodon, but it surely wasn't the culinary paradise of tender, succulent meat that the recipe promised. In reality, though perhaps I'd graduated to the bronze age, I was still far from the roast that I wanted. After all, if cavewomen could master this technique, surely a college-educated, brainy feminist could grasp the basics of the braise. Roast: 2 Me:0.

So I set out to expand my braise-iary (I can totally turn that verb into an adjective!) horizons. The Zuni Cafe Cookbook - whose recipe I adapted for polenta fries a few days ago - helped, with extensive advice on braising. I also quizzed my Grandmother's nursing home neighbor, who had been a catering cook and personal chef in her youth. Thus, armed with the advice of elder generations and Beard-winning chefs, I set out once more into the fray. I traded the water (!) for a carefully constructed mixture of reduced wine and beef stock. The generic mirepoix (Can you believed I used a frozen veggie cubes mix? I was so naive!) got swapped out for a chunkier, funkier accompaniment. Instead of serving the over-cooked veggies alongside the roast, I grabbed a strainer and mashed them into submission as a puree to thicken my sauce. Who needs loads of cornstarch when the veggies you already roasted work better? Also, two hours is not nearly long enough to produce a heavenly-tender roast. Girded with the experience of my past mistakes, I set out to better myself. I was going to produce a perfect roast if it killed me, and then I did. My third attempt at braising a roast turned out delicately, fall-apart-on-the-fork tender, and the sauce the accompanied it was thick and luscious with a gorgeous red-brown color from wine and beets. I wallowed. And the leftovers! I swear it was even better the second day, if that's even possible. Roast:2 Me:1. My days in the dark ages of braising were over!

Braised Chuck Roast

Note: I advise tying this roast before anything else. It may not seem to need it when the roast is uncooked, but during the browning process, and especially after the roast is finished braising, it will literally fall apart if it's not secured with some sort of twine. So break out your kite string or your hemp rope, and tie it according to the instructions on the link above for an easier braising experience.

1 750ml bottle of a red wine with some body to it (think Burgundy or Cab Sauv here, nothing too fruity)
1 qt low sodium beef stock
1 large yellow onion
3 small beets (if your grocery doesn't carry small beets, use one large one instead)
15 baby carrots (or two large carrots)
4 lb shoulder chuck roast (Pick a roast with lots of connective tissues, where lots of muscles meet. Your butcher can help.)
1 tsp olive oil
5 garlic cloves, unpeeled
3 bay leaves
Salt
Pepper

Start by salting the meat (1 tbsp salt for every 4 lbs meat). Zuni recommends salting up to 3 days in advance, but I usually forget until the day before. Even so, salting in advance is a great idea, it really does make a flavour difference.

When you're ready to actually start your braise, get out a wide, shallow saucepan and pour in the whole bottle of wine. Sit it over medium high heat and let it reduce until it gets down to about half a cup. I know it sounds like that would take forever, but in reality it only takes about twenty minutes, and you can do other things in the meantime. Set another wide, shallow pan on a different burner, and pour in the quart of beef stock. That one should reduce to about two cups.

While your stock and wine are reducing, tie up the roast. Tying should compact the meat together (so it doesn't fall apart as easily), and bind in any irregular parts so that they'll cook more evenly.

After you tie the roast, chop your veggies. I usually just chop the onions into 1 1/2 inch wedges, and beets into thickish rounds, and the mini carrots in half. If you're using large carrots, chop them into chunks. Since everything is sort of thick and rustic, this shouldn't take long. These veggies don't have to be pretty, so just give them a once-through with a knife to get them into manageable portions.

Next, brown the roast. Pick a skillet not much larger than the roast. Add a very scant tsp of olive oil, and warm briefly over medium heat. Set the roast in the pan, and allow it to brown BUT NOT TO SCORCH. I know scorched bits are tasty when you're eating them on burgers or steaks, but imagine those bits once they've soaked for five hours in liquid. Ew. So the goal is brown, but not scorched. Turn the roast so that all sides and both ends are browned. This doesn't take long, two minutes or so per side is plenty.

By the time the tying, chopping, and browning is done, your liquids should be about reduced, and you are ready to start assembling your braise. Preheat the oven to 325F, and find a covered, oven-safe and flameproof dish that will accommodate your roast with about 2 or 3 inches to spare on all sides. This can be a Dutch oven, a large saute pan with a lid, a casserole dish, whatever floats your boat. Set the browned meat in the pan, then surround it on all sides with the veggies. The vegetables should be very crowded, and pressed right up against the meat. Scatter the bay leaves on top of the vegetables, and sprinkle pepper over the whole thing. Add the reduced wine then the reduced stock, so that the liquid comes to somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 way up the roast. If you don't use all the stock, save the remainder for adding to the gravy, or for another recipe.

Cover the braise and bring it to a simmer on the stove (this cuts down on cooking time by a little). When it's simmering, take it off the stove and place the braising dish in the oven. Helpful hint: you may want to place it on some sort of tray first, then sit tray and dish in the oven, so that if it bubbles over it won't get your oven dirty. After two or so hours, turn the roast over, recover the dish, and sit it back in the oven to continue braising. After another hour, turn again. This help keep the top side of the meat from losing too much liquid and becoming unappetizingly dry. Turn it once more 15 minutes before it's done, so that no side will be too dried out.

Continue cooking for another hour or so, until the roast is fork-tender. The Zuni Cafe Cookbook recommends that one can extend the cooking time by dropping the oven temperature to 275F or even 250F, and cooking for five or six hours instead of four. This will produce an even more succulent roast. I've done this a few times, on Saturdays when I didn't have anything better to do, and it really does work.

When the roast is finished, remove it from the braising dish and let it rest. While it's resting, fish the veggies out of the sauce and into a strainer situated over a medium bowl. Mash them with a wooden spoon until you have a cup or so of veggie puree. Taste the sauce in the braising pan, and add puree to give it a little more body and sweetness. You don't have to use all the puree here although I usually do, this is a personal taste thing. If you've still got some reduced stock left over, pour that in, then use the puree to adjust thickness and taste. Other potential additives to the sauce include balsamic vinegar (just a little), a pinch of sugar (to balance out an acidic sauce), or a tbsp or so of cornstarch (for additional thickness). I usually use the cornstarch, because I like a more substantial gravy-like sauce.

Once you've got the sauce right, carve the roast (this shouldn't be difficult, properly-braised roasts are very very tender). As with all meat, braised roasts should be carved against the grain. Pour the sauce back over, and you're ready to serve.

Here's my little braising secret: this roast improves vastly with age. Let it sit in the refrigerator for a day, and what was merely a good roast will transform itself into something approaching meat-godliness. So if I'm really on the ball, I'll do this braise a day in advance, and instead of carving I'll just refrigerate the whole thing after I get done adjusting the sauce and pouring it back over the roast. On the second day, I'll take it out and rewarm it in a 300F oven for half an hour or so (just enough to let the meat warm through, but not enough to dry it out), then serve. People always seem amazed when they taste it, and with good reason: they've never had a braise this good. The secret's in the extra time, when the roast can reabsorb its juices and add even more flavour to itself.

Servings: 6 to 8, depending on the size of your roast.