With the increased coarsening of everyday life, it probably doesn’t help to heap more toxicity, and no little division, on an already overburdened environment. I apologise in advance; what follows ain’t going to help.
The fifth quarter, offal, variety, organ and inside meat. Fierce words that would make one demographic go weak at the knees, and another gag uncontrollably.
For the fully signed-up offal enthusiasts (yes, you at the back) inside meat offers a more diverse, unique, nutritious and tasty way to eat. It’s not only an act of resistance to the sometimes banal and unscrupulous ways food is laid out before us but also a clarion call to rescue an eating experience like no other from widespread public opprobrium.
The alarming disconnect between identifying what we eat and where it comes from is perfectly encapsulated in our relationship with the inner and outer organs of an animal. For some, the innards and extremities (I’m looking at you calves’ feet and pigs’ tails) reflect a deeply fulfilling and joyous connection to an animal. Past and present. To the unenthused, anything outside the triumvirate of steak, bacon and sausages leads to queasiness. Although it must be said, commercial sausages can contain as much offal, not to mention mystery meat, as to qualify, at least in the macabre status that innards are accused of, as inside meat. And strangely, the closer the meat resembles a bodily function, the wider the disconnect. It seems the more we celebrate the eating of brains, tripe and kidneys, the more likely we rebuff their attachment to a sentient creature.
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If we eat animals, we should utilise all, or most, of what that animal can give back. It definitely helps that what’s left behind after the more mainstream contents have been removed has thrilling potential in taste and texture. Think firm kidneys, springy tripe, crispy ears and melty brains. Don’t forget that most offal is high in protein and low in fat. So despite its reputation for being a necessary and grisly byproduct of the meat industry, it turns out its nutritional merits are highly prized. And the rarity value of offal (the sheer volume of meat compared with innards is considerable) only adds to the joy of getting hold of a delicacy that is too often derided.
But what has really defined our antipathy towards offal is that it’s a collective and defiant rebuke and doubling down against our own mortality. Being confronted by an animal’s organs is a visceral reminder of what it means to be alive but also, well, dead.
Maybe we have a shared responsibility to turns things around. Eat less meat. Eat no meat. But if we are to accept animal protein as an intrinsic part of our lives then we should humbly try to lean into its (inner) dark side. Don’t miss out. A brighter and bolder future awaits. I promise.
Two offal recipes, if you dare
Calves’ liver fenugreek butter (serves four)
Veal itself is hard enough to track down without the extra worry of how to get hold of its liver. We get ours, lovingly pre-prepared, from the great folk at Broughammon Farm in Ballycastle, Co Antrim. Use lamb’s liver if you can’t find veal.
Ingredients
- 500g of calves’ liver, thinly sliced
- 150g of butter
- 1tbs of fenugreek leaves
- 1 shallot, finely diced
- 1 clove of garlic, chopped
- 1tsp turmeric
- ½ tsp each of ground and toasted coriander seeds and cumin seeds.
- 5 guindilla chillies
- 2tbs pomegranate molasses or good aged balsamic vinegar
- 2tbs olive oil
Method
Trim the liver of any membrane. Soak in milk for two hours in the fridge. Drain and pat dry. We usually serve about 120g-130g of veal per person. You can chop each portion into three if you like. Marinate these pieces in the molasses and olive oil for about an hour.
Make the butter. Mix the butter with the fenugreek leaves, spices, shallot and garlic together in a bowl with a wooden spoon. Put the butter in a small pot. Cook on a low heat for two minutes. Don’t burn it! Set aside and keep warm.
Cook the liver on a medium heat in a nonstick frying pan with a little olive oil. Fry it in two batches if your pan isn’t big enough, for no more than 30-40 seconds a side (one minute max), depending on thickness, here about ½ inch. If the pan is too hot and you’re worried about the liver burning, just turn the pieces a few times.
Rest the liver in a colander for a minute or two. This way, if there is any blood, it will drip away. Pour a little of the hot butter over the liver. Place the liver on a plate, top with more butter and chopped guindilla chillies. Season with sea salt and a drizzle of olive oil.
Tripe (serves eight to 10)
Leave the best till last. Two stomachs from the cow. Inspired by the Basque country.
Ingredients
- A full piece of honeycomb tripe cut into four large pieces
- 200g of blanket tripe cut in half
- 2 fresh pigs’ feet.
- Spanish ham bones (optional)
- 3 or 4 raw spicy chorizo sausages, whole
- 5 onions, peeled and quartered
- 2 peppers, whole
- 2 carrots, peeled and halved
- 1 bay leaf
- 3tbs of tomato paste
- 1tbs each of smoked and sweet paprika
- 10 black peppercorns
- Sherry vinegar
Method
Give the tripe a good wash and, if overly funky, scrub with a bit lemon. Cover the tripe with cold water. Bring to the boil and strain. Rinse. Add fresh water to the pot, just enough to cover, followed by the tripe, pigs’ feet, ham bones (if you can get them), all the veg, bay leaf, peppercorns, tomato paste and paprikas. Bring to the boil the lower the heat. Add the chorizo about 20-30 mins before the end. The tripe can take anything from 40 to 90 minutes (as it is usually par boiled). And the blanket tripe nearly always cooks faster. Keep this in mind when adding the chorizo. Check the tripe with the top of a sharp pointy knife. You want the knife to pierce the stomach easily enough. When cooled, cut the tripe into thin strips or bit-sized pieces. Similarly, cut the chorizo into little rounds. Don’t forget to chop up the pigs’ feet and ham bone too. Add everything back into the pot. Reheat gently. When portioning, serve a bit of everything, including a little broth. And don’t be shy with the tripe. Discard the veg (apart from the peppers) if you want, but I rather like them. Season with a little sea salt and a few drops of sherry vinegar. It’s even nicer the next day.
Ken Doherty is joint chef and owner with Gwen McGrath of Assassination Custard restaurant in Dublin 8
