Pun-free Meatballs

The mere utterance of the word "meatball" is usually enough to conjure an untoward image in the listener's mind.  What is it about this combination of meat and grain that fosters such prurient thoughts?  Is it the spherical shape?  The carnal allure of flesh?  Or just the way the words hang together?

Meat.  Ball.  Meatball.

For the remaining paragraphs, I'm going to ask all of you to grow up.  Get those sexual notions out of your brain and concentrate on this misunderstood and under-appreciated food, the delectable creation that is the meatball.  Feel free to return your mind to the gutter as soon as we're finished.

As I've mentioned before, I grew up in a big Italian family.  We used to go to Aunt Sarah's just about every Sunday for spaghetti dinner.  We used to go there in the middle of the week so I could play with my cousins and eat Spaghetti-Os out of a can too.  Part and parcel.  Anyway, being first generation Italian-Americans, Sarah and her sisters learned to cook from their mother, who learned to cook in that funny looking boot-shaped country.  A fair amount gets lost in translation on the way down, but those Sunday dinners, to the best of my recollection, were fairly well-informed in the old ways, even if everything was bought at the supermarket instead of grown in the backyard.

I learned a fair bit about cooking from my mom (who learned from her mom, who learned from her mom, who learned on the boot, remember?), but I've also done a lot of digging into traditional Italian culinary history.  The meatball, believe it or not, can be traced back to the Apicius, the oldest surviving cookbook in the world.  The recipe hasn't changed too dramatically in the last two thousand years: minced meat, moistened bread and spices, cooked in liquid.  Of course Marcus Apicus recommended a mixture of peacock meat with wine-soaked bread and garum (common Roman condiment similar to Thai fish sauce), all wrapped in pork caul, the natural webbed fat that surrounds pig intestines.  That part of the recipe has changed quite a bit.

I've tried quite a few variations on the so-called "authentic" Italian meatball before settling on a recipe that I like.  I don't use veal because every creature deserves the right to grow up before the world eats it.  I don't use milk-soaked bread anymore because it's difficult to maintain cohesion with that much moisture in play.  I don't use a lot of unnecessary spices either.  Italian cooking is about simplicity, and if you follow these simple steps, you'll be richly rewarded.

First, get a stock pot out and dump about a half gallon (three 1.5 pound jars) of marinara sauce in there, plus another 2-3 cups of water.  Heat it up to a nice, even simmer.  You're going to be cooking the meatballs in this sauce, so make sure it's flavored to your liking before you drop the meat in.  While that's warming up, mince one shallot and two garlic cloves.  Heat some olive oil in a small skillet and saute the shallot and garlic until it softens up a bit.  Don't burn the garlic!

Put one pound of ground beef (80/20 is best, no leaner than 85/15) and one pound of hot Italian sausage in a bowl.  I make my own bulk sausage, but if you have a store-bought favorite you should use it.  I prefer hot Italian sausage - heavy on the red pepper flakes and fennel seeds - because I like a spicy meatball, but if you're not into all that heat then a sweet Italian sausage will do just fine.

To your two pounds of meat, you're going to add one cup of dry bread crumbs, two eggs, three tablespoons of fresh Italian flat leaf parsley, 3 oz. of ricotta cheese, 3 oz. of grated Parmesan or Romano cheese (or 1.5 oz. of each), 1/2 teaspoon each of salt and pepper (I use Penzey's Black & Red when I want to kick up the heat even further), and the shallots and garlic you sauteed earlier.

 This is the fun part.  Give your hands a coating of olive oil (so the meat won't stick to them), then mix up all those ingredients until the glob of meat is uniform.  You shouldn't be able to tell the difference between the two meats anymore, nor should you have any obvious clumps of cheese or breadcrumbs.  Once that's done, heat up that skillet again, make a small meat patty and cook it up.  Taste it and make sure the flavor and texture are to your liking.  This is the last chance you'll have to adjust anything.

Oil up your hands again and start forming your meatballs.  I find that a one-inch ball is just about perfect in terms of presentation size vs. braising time.  Two pounds of meat plus the additional ingredients should yield between 25-30 meat balls.  You could make them bigger if you want a "wow" factor; cooking them in sauce means they won't dry out, though I've had issues with large meatballs and desirable texture.  You could also make marble-sized polpettine if you like, but I don't understand the appeal.

As you roll these out, gently drop them into the sauce, starting around the edge of the pot and working your way toward the middle.  Once they're all in there, give the pot a little jiggle to let all the balls settle in.  DO NOT STIR YET!  The meatballs are still fragile and you don't want to bust them up before they get a chance to set, which will happen in about 15 minutes.  I generally pull one out after about 20 minutes to do a doneness check.  You're looking for 165 degrees if you're using a thermometer.  You can also cut one open and see what color they are inside.  You're looking for tannish-brown without any traces of red rawness.

When the meatballs are done, serve them however you'd like.  In our house, it's usually on top of a pile of spaghetti with garlic bread, on the first night at least.  If you're not feeding a big Italian family, you're going to have a bunch of leftover meatballs and more sauce than you know what to do with.  Some ideas for leftovers...

 How about a toasted meatball sub with shaved smoked provolone and garnished with fresh parsley?

Or a pan of lasagna?  I know you've got enough sauce left over and probably a whole bunch of ricotta too.  Grind up those leftover meatballs and throw in some fresh spinach between those layers of pasta.

Whip up an Italian omelet for breakfast.  Saute onions, mushrooms and bell peppers, combine with chopped meatballs and ricotta cheese for the filling, then top with marinara, fresh parley and lightly shredded Parmesan.  Bacon and pepperoni bread optional.

Bay of Delicious Pigs

My four regular readers have probably noticed that I've written a few articles about pork loin roasts.  There's a good reason for that: they're relatively cheap (who isn't on a budget these days?) and, when prepared the way I tell you to, delicious.  At the risk of getting monotonous, I'm going to write one more article about pork loin and then I'm going to shelve this subject for a while.

Last time we talked pork, I was telling you my plan to make a bacon-wrapped loin roast with Hoppin' John and dijon carrot slaw.  As you can probably guess by the photo above, that all turned out great.  Still, since I was only cooking for the lady and me, we had a fair amount of leftover pork.  I'm a lazy man around the house (well, until my resolution kicks in) so most of the remaining pork got eaten as it was prepared.  However, toward the end of its shelf life, I decided to dress it up a little bit by turning those last few slices into sandwiches.

Specifically, Cuban sandwiches.  There's something mysterious and magical about the Cuban sandwich, despite its simplicity.  Roasted pork meets ham, plus Swiss cheese, mustard and pickles on crusty bread, all pressed together and served hot.  If it's that easy, why do so many attempts miss the mark?  As with most sandwiches, the answer is simple: if the bread's wrong, the whole thing is wrong.

Traditional Cuban bread is similar to commonplace Italian or French bread, but with the addition of lard to the dough.  My wife has been experimenting a lot with baking of late (despite my culinary prowess in several areas, I am a shitty baker) and makes a pretty impressive rustic Italian loaf.  However, when I suggested that she bake a pan Cubano for our sandwiches, she was put off a bit by the idea of larding up the bread.  I suspect that revulsion, along with the fact that the hardening lard makes the bread nearly inedible after 24 hours, explains why it's nearly impossible to get Cuban bread north of the Everglades.  We settled instead for some ciabatta mini-loaves.  Yeah, it's not authentic anymore and I'll bet you'll view the rest of this post with disdain, but you know what?  It wasn't going to be authentic anyway, because I was repurposing leftover pork loin instead of slow cooking a shoulder in mojo marinade anyway, so shut up.

I sliced my pork loin pretty thick and I knew I was going to need thinner pieces for these sandwiches, so I beat my meat.  Yup, just plopped it down there on the counter and pounded it out.  I'll be here all week, folks.  First, I had a little bit of tenderloin on these slices so I separated that into small chunks, then I hit the remaining loin portion with the tenderizer mallet until they were a little under 1/4-inch thick.  A layer of mayonnaise on the bottom bun (optional), a little bit of shredded Swiss cheese, then the tenderized loin, then the tenderloin chunks (the pinkish meat on top in the following photo).

If you ever find yourself in Ybor City, you might see something called a "sandwich mixto" which is another name for a Cubano, so named because it is a mix of ham and roasted pork.  You might also see something called "medianoche" which is a Cuban sandwich made with soft egg bread instead of crusty Cuban bread.  Nothing wrong with that either.  Anyway, throw some shredded Swiss cheese on top of the roasted pork (I like to layer the cheese throughout the sandwich to help it all stick together), then add thin sliced ham (you can also add some salami, but it's not an essential ingredient), more cheese, dill pickles and more cheese.  Dress the top bun with yellow mustard and finish off the sandwich.  Now for the fun part...

A Cuban isn't a Cuban unless it's pressed to within an inch of its life.  I guess, in retrospect, it's social commentary on the oppressive Castro regime, but I'm sure that's not why the sandwich is made that way.  Probably more to do with, you know, taste than politics, especially since the sandwich predates the dictator.  Anyway, if you happen to have a commercial panini press at home, you're in luck.  If you don't, you have a couple of options.  The George Foreman grill is a common bastardization of the panini press, but you may find that your sandwich is too big for the Foreman to accommodate it.  I went with a griddle pan on the stove top, plus a heavy cast iron skillet (with a layer of aluminum foil between it and the sandwiches) and a little bit of extra downward pressure provided by my burly man muscles.  I've actually seen people use foil-wrapped bricks to crush their sandwiches.  The instrument of oppression is secondary to the drive to make the sandwich submit to your will.

The key here is to melt the cheese, heat the meat and crisp the bread without burning it.  I found that my bread got toasty on the bottom well before the cheese in the middle melted, so I gave them one more downward push and then finished them in the oven to get more even heat than the stove top griddle could provide.  If I had a panini press, there'd be heat coming from both the top and bottom.  Probably should've heated up my cast iron.  Eureka moment: if you have a pizza stone, heat that up in the oven and then use it to press the sandwiches.  Boom, homemade panini press.  Be careful though: obviously balancing a 450 degree pizza stone on top of sandwiches on your range is a little dangerous.

Once everything's all hot and gooey, you're all set.  The salty sweet of the ham plays off the savory roasted pork, the acidity of the pickle gives depth to the tart spice of the mustard and the luscious melted Swiss is contrasted by the crispy, toasted bread.  If there is such a thing as the perfect sandwich, the Cuban has to be in consideration for that spot.  So simple, yet so richly complex.  And to think something this good came from transformed leftover pork loin.  A food that I shall not speak of again until, oh, let's say, June.

Sir, you are no longer a child...

So a guy walks into a Subway in Florida and orders a Philly cheesesteak with ketchup, is told by the sandwich artist on duty that cheesesteaks don't get ketchup (and that Subway doesn't have ketchup at all), then a verbal altercation breaks out between the two which leads to the worker allegedly threatening to kill the customer.  Getting past the absolute absurdity of the entire situation, I have reached these three conclusions:

1) The customer says he's from South Jersey and calls himself a cheesesteak "connoisseur."  I have to call the veracity of the rest of his statement into question if he, a so-called "connoisseur," thought he was going to get an authentic Philly cheesesteak from Subway.

2) Later he says "By the way, when you buy a cheesesteak in Philly, you put ketchup on it, ok?"  Yeah?  Well, you know, that's just, like, uh, your opinion, man:
a) Here's the ordering guide for Pat's: you don't ask for ketchup at the window, bro.
b) Geno's says you can put it on your own sandwich yourself, but their owner also said if you put anything besides cheese and onions on a cheesesteak, you killed it (among other things).
c) Jim's is better than both of these clowns.

3) Clearly the Philly cheesesteak sellers could use an advisory council similar to the one that the hot dog industry has.*  The cardinal rule for hot dogs - and I think it should probably apply to all meats - is that if you are over the age of 18, you don't put ketchup on a hot dog.  You're an adult, dude.  You have a fully developed palate.  Try enjoying food instead of eating like a child.**

The court sides with the defendant.

*Note to self: look into job opportunities with the National Hot Dog & Sausage Council.
**Ketchup is a perfectly acceptable condiment for fried vegetables, but that is about it.  It should never be served on meat of any kind unless it has been transformed into another condiment altogether.