shallots

Quick and Easy Pan-Seared Steak with Simple Red Wine Pan Sauce

Posted on by Craig Stewart

I am a man held hostage by a hunk of cow.

I decided to make something quick and easy. It also needed to be hearty and fulfilling because it’s so damn cold a parade of penguins is moving in next door. So I chose to make something that had the adjectives “quick” and “easy” in the title, yet would be substantial enough to help me survive this frozen wasteland I call home. That dish is Quick and Easy Pan-Seared Steak (Page 311) with a Simple Red Wine Pan Sauce (Page 319).

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Notice the use of is, not was. I’m currently still waiting to get this “quick, easy and simple dish” started. Allow me to explain.

The first step of Quick and Easy Pan-Seared Steak is “Season generously with salt and pepper.” The second step is wait 45 minutes.

45 minutes is not “quick.” It’s a full episode of Maury when you fast forward through commercials.

45 minutes is not “easy.” I once walked out of a Jimmy Johns because there were four people in line ahead of me.

Rather than once again dwell on The Food Lab’s outright lies, I decided to fill the endless void of time and space by being productive. I sliced one shallot and minced another. I googled “Slicing vs. Mincing” and received absolutely no direction. I made an educated guess. I don’t think I did it right.

If Satan has a garden, he grows parsley. I watched several YouTube video tutorials about the proper way to cut parsley and I still have absolutely no idea how it’s done. I feel like my rage alone should be enough to scare the parsley pieces into separating from each other, but when that didn’t work I threw down my knife and got out the scissors. They did nothing. I’m left with a heaping pile of malformed greens. I abandon the Dark Lord’s Decorative Garnish.

I look at the clock. There’s still over a half an hour left until I can start cooking.

I’m making Red Wine Pan Sauce. I have 30 minutes with nothing to do and I’m angry and hungry. I don’t think Red Wine Pan Sauce takes the entire bottle and it’s about time the chef took a taste. I pour myself a glass and wonder if Hemingway did it like this when he wrote his food blog.

My mind has wandered and I’m starting to think about thyme. I only need four sprigs of thyme for this recipe, yet was forced to purchase roughly 400 sprigs because that’s how grocery stores work. Is this an allegory? Do we think we need more thyme/time to make a difference in our recipes/world yet in reality a little goes a long way? What does this say about the human condition? Do we grasp for more thyme/time against the inevitable end? How much thyme/time is too much thyme/time?

Have I had too many glasses of wine?

The clock has struck zero. There is no more thyme/time for philosophical questions. There is only thyme/time for steak.

30 minutes later.

It all happened so fast.

As instructed, I heated the pan to roughly the temperature of the Sun. When I threw the steak into the molten hot pan I was greeted by a satisfying sizzle, and a terrifying fear of losing my eyesight as hot oil jumped out of the pan and into my face.

I kept my head up, and fought through the plumes of smoke to make the ever-important steak flip. It happens flawlessly and I stare in wonder at the crispy brown steak crust I have birthed, and the thyme, butter and shallots I have forgotten about on the prep counter.

I throw everything in the pan hoping it’s not too late, before flipping the steak a few more times. Many cooks believe flipping a steak more than once is the secret to ruining a perfectly good steak. J. Kenji Lopez-Alt believes otherwise, and I am but his faithful disciple, now anointed by searing hot vegetable oil.

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When I was growing up, my friend’s father once ordered a steak by telling the waiter, “Knock the horns off, wipe its ass and walk it on in here.” I’m not quite so bold. I’m shooting for 120oF, more commonly known as Medium-Rare. I bought a thermometer at the grocery store for this, so I guess I’m officially invested now.

The steak is out and needs to rest for five minutes, but my panic can not subside. I thought to myself, “If my steak gets cold before the pan sauce is ready everything is ruined.” In reflection, that was somewhat dramatic. All I’ve had to eat today was a frozen dinner. I could have covered the steak with ketchup and would have eaten it.

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I quickly start throwing everything I can into the pan to try to get it cooked down in time. Shallot? In. Flour? In. Wine? In. Stock? In. Stupid-ass parsley? In. Dijon Mustard? Safety seal still on. I reached for a knife to cut the bottle open and grazed the nuclear-hot pan with my wrist. There is no time for pain. Next time i need less wine, and more preparation.

I defeated the safety seal but felt the overwhelming pressure of my ever-cooling steak and quickly decided to eyeball a tablespoon of mustard into the pan when Hurricane Dijon made land. Chicago doesn’t go through this much mustard during baseball season and it’s in the middle of my sauce. I decided to just heat it up, cook it down and live to fight another day. What can man do but persevere in the face of such overwhelming tragedy?

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Once the sauce was remotely thick I chopped my steak in half, scooped out a spoonful of the stuff and sharpened my teeth. During my panic I forgot to throw the frozen vegetables in the microwave. I don’t care. It’s 9:00. None of this was quick. None of this was easy. None of this was simple. I am a carnivore and it is time to feed.

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This is the best steak I have ever eaten. The burns and boredom were worth every single savory bite. I simply can’t describe how incredible this piece of cow was. I am proud of my creation. Did I invent steak? No. Have I perfected it? Yes.

When I go to sleep tonight I’ll do so with my stomach full, and I’ll dream about this steak. When I wake up tomorrow, I’ll do so with my head on fire, not from the searing hot oil bath, but because I probably had one too many glasses of the main ingredient in Simple Red Wine Pan Sauce.

Recipe: 9/9

Did I do the dishes? Kind of.

Ultra-Crisp-Skinned Pan-Roasted Salmon Filets with Cherry Tomato-Shallot Relish and Braised Asparagus.

Posted on by Craig Stewart

I came to two conclusions this week. First, if I ever want to finish this thing I’m going to have to double up on recipes. Second, I do not look good in straight-on photos right now. Those two realizations drove me to select this week’s dish, a healthy triple header, Ultra-Crisp-Skinned Pan-Roasted Salmon Filets (Page 380) with Cherry Tomato-Shallot Relish (Page 382) and Braised Asparagus (Page 445).

Sounds healthy on paper. The amount of grease on my hands and keyboard disagree.

My first hiccup occurred at the grocery store. Confession time, I have no idea what a shallot is. I thought it was a type of fish. I first looked for them next to the salmon. I found scallops, but not shallots.

Shallots are not a meat, so they must be a vegetable. I next went to the lettuce section. I found parsley, something else I needed. I only needed two tablespoons of the useless stuff, but you have to buy an entire head. I am not pleased. Olive Garden doesn’t use this much parsley during Never-Ending Pasta Month.

Shallots are not a leafy vegetable, so I went to the mushroom section. I did not find shallots.

Shallots are not a fungus, so I went to the potato section. I did not find shallots.

In the far back reaches of the produce section sits a world nearly untouched by the hands of man, the onion section. There you will find the shallot, next to a wise old guru who makes fun of you for not knowing what a shallot is. Apparently it’s just a tiny, oddly-shaped onion. Super exciting.

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Back to the kitchen. I consulted the ten pages of The Food Lab dedicated to Ultra-Crisp-Skinned Pan-Roasted Salmon and decided that the author has too much time on his hands and uses too many adjectives.

I prepared all of my ingredients before I started cooking, which is a very new step for me. My kitchen preparations generally consist of opening the freezer, then opening the microwave.

Prep takes too long. If I was on Chopped I would have wasted my entire 20 minutes on the near-impossible task of chopping parsley. I tried banging my knife on the cutting board, rocking it back and forth, pulling it apart with my hands, yelling at it and cursing loudly. Nothing worked at achieving perfect little parsley pieces. Eventually I ended up with three separate parsley piles. The first was salvageable but still probably still too big. The second was a pile of parsley leaves large enough to fan the Pharaoh. The third was stems, all of which still had parsley on them despite my noble efforts. I think they make you buy so much of this worthless garnish because they want it to haunt your home even after you’re done cooking.

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As I chopped my shallot I began to cry. I don’t think it’s an emotional attachment to the shallot I spent so long looking for, but I did go through a lot for this little member of the onion family. I’ve now cried twice in three days, over shallots and the St. Louis Rams moving to Los Angeles. This cooking thing is making me soft.

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I started off by browning the asparagus in oil. Once it was browned I braised it by adding three tablespoons of butter and covering. So far I’m counting three tablespoons of butter and two tablespoons of oil.

I’m supposed to cook the salmon with the skin on in hot oil and flip for the final few seconds when the “skin releases” whatever the hell that means. That’s three tablespoons of butter and four tablespoons of oil for those playing along at home.

I combined the tomatoes, shallots, parsley, balsamic vinegar and oil together to create the relish. That’s three tablespoons of butter and six tablespoons of oil. I know why we’re going to run out of oil one day, it’s all on my plate.

My hopes of this actually being a healthy meal have gone away, but at this point it smells pretty damn good, so I don’t really care. Healthy crap can start tomorrow.

Disaster strikes. The first piece of fish flipped easily. The second flipped on the counter like it was trying to get back for mating season. I captured it with my bare hands before he found his way to the floor. For that brief moment, I was the Crocodile Hunter.

By now the asparagus, butter, oil, and chicken broth bonanza is supposed to have cooked down to a glaze. Mine looks more like a soup. I’m hungry and I’m not picky. I decide the poor asparagus has served his time in the pan-itentiary and it gets out early for good behavior.

Looking at my pieces I find myself overwhelmed with pride, and decide to attempt to plate my dish with a little bit of presentation like they do on the TV.

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Eat your heart out Scott Conant. I can hear the applause from here.

The salmon turned out incredible. It was tender with crispy skin. It had all of the good of salmon and none of the bad. Biggest deal for me? It didn’t take very long. I’m pretty proud of myself. This one’s going in the back pocket for quick evening meals that are possibly but probably not healthy.

I loved the relish, but hated the preparation time. Chopping parsley, tomatoes and shallots takes way too much time. Plus, you can buy relish from a hot dog cart anyway.

The asparagus I enjoyed. I should probably have cooked it down longer because it was still a little firm. I’ve always loved asparagus though so I don’t mind. The most fun part about eating asparagus hasn’t happened yet as of this writing, and you probably don’t want to read about that anyway.

Now, my house smells like fish. The 1000 page cookbook doesn’t cover how to eliminate it. Sorry coworkers, but I made two pieces and only ate one. You’ll get to experience the sensation in person tomorrow.

Recipe Rating: 14/15

Did I do the dishes? Yes