Consider the Source.

One of the reasons I haven’t written in this blog for months is that I am a hater for food bloggers, and this blog made me one of them. What made–or rather makes–me a hater is nothing more than an old-fashioned desire for hierarchy. Respect. In the blogosphere, any ol’ one can spout his or her opinion on any ol’ thing. There are no filters.

The one time I looked online for restaurant reviews was about five years ago, when I was working with Kenny Shopsin on his book, EAT ME. Kenny asked me if I ever used the Internet, or if i thought it was any good (Yelp, Chowhound, etc.), as a restaurant guide. I told him that I didn’t, but it did inspire me to take a look down what I found to be the sad avenues of these sites. I decided to conduct a test of their efficacy and chose to see what they had to say about a restaurant I know well, Barbuto, owned by a well regarded chef, Jonathan Waxman, who has been around several different blocks and is near-worshipped by his peers. (In the years before he opened Barbuto, I dined with him several times and chefs fell to their knees when he sat down to eat–and he hadn’t had a restaruant for years.) Barbuto is a simple, neighborhood place where all of the entrees are cooked on a wood-fired grill, all the veggies come from small farms–by a chef who had been doing that for 30 years and didn’t need to announce it all over his menu. The food at Barbuto shows the kind of restraint that comes with maturity. As opposed to the reviews of Barbuto, by immature and uninformed sources.

In this smart but poorly constructed story in the Columbia Journalism Review, in what amounts to basically a chronology of restaurant reviewing, the author finally gets to the same point in the second to last paragraph, which I have pasted here.

More than ever, diners could use a reliable critical guide. But where once there were a few dependable voices who reviewed restaurants based on a common set of professional standards and strategies, there is now a digital free-for-all. As with many things on the Web, this profusion of voices is often touted as a wondrous blow for democracy, a long-overdue rising up of the masses against the elitist overlords of the culinary realm. Thus the runaway popularity of sites like Chowhound and Yelp, which publishes city-specific reviews by anyone who cares to weigh in on everything from restaurants to churches, and whose motto is “Real People. Real Reviews.” I’m all for everyone having his or her say, but when it comes to cultural criticism there is a strong case to be made for professionalism and expertise. As the eminent film critic Richard Schickel wrote in 2007, in response to a New York Times article on the decline of professional book-reviewing and the rise of review-bloggers: “Criticism—and its humble cousin, reviewing—is not a democratic activity. It is, or should be, an elite enterprise, ideally undertaken by individuals who bring something to the party beyond their hasty, instinctive opinions . . . . It is work that requires disciplined taste, historical and theoretical knowledge and a fairly deep sense of the author’s (or filmmaker’s or painter’s) entire body of work, among other qualities.”

I can’t bear to go back down those sordid roads to find the exact quotes of what people said about Barbuto (which was just an example; I’m not their p.r. agent, although I should be), but the comments I found were things like: It’s not all that. Over-rated. Below average. Meanwhile, place is perfect. And packed. What do they know.

Whiskey Does It

Today my friend the Foodinista asked me what I was cooking for Thanksgiving because somewhere during our ten year friendship she picked up the idea that around this time of year, I have something inspiring up my sleeve. My family is having a pseudo Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow afternoon. I’m bringing dessert, and since I have been elbow-deep in olive oil and grated Parm testing recipes for the Mozza cookbook all week long, I didn’t think about what I would bring until five o’clock this evening at which time I decided to take a Why Argue with Success approach and make a Sourmash Apple Cobbler that I have been making since 1991. I was given the recipe as a going away present from the chef at a restaurant where I worked after college to save money to move to New York City, and I have relied on it countless times since–even after my rustic baked fruit repertoire became much more, er… sophisticated (can I that word in the context of a rustic baked fruit dessert?).  The apples are cooked with a cup of sourmash whiskey (aka Jack Daniels), which gets caramely and sticky after nearly an hour in a hot oven, and the crunchy topping is all butter and sugar, and I have yet to meet anyone who doesn’t love it. Best of all it’s easier than pie and  it smells great coming out of the oven. Throw it in when you take out the ham and you’ll have a bubbling, whiskey infused caramelized apple extravaganza with which to sweeten any family drama that might have fermented over dinner. You won’t regret it.

Sourmash Apple Crisp
This is a huge recipe because it’s the one the chef gave me. I always plan on cutting it in half but then when I go to buy the apples, I get weak. I decide to make the whole, humongous thing, bake it in a couple of Emile Henry dishes, and find something to do with the extra one. Tonight I gave it to my intern Tracey. After all, it was she who said, bravely, after having spent the previous 7 hours making two pasta filings, white bean puree, capon brodo, and a batch of chocolate chunk cookie dough—said encouragingly, just when I was trying to convince myself that chocolate chip cookies could pass for Thanksgiving dessert: “If you go get the apples, I’ll help you cut them.”

For the Crisp Topping

1 pound unsalted butter

4 cups sugar

4 cups flour

1 heaping teaspoon kosher salt

For the Apples

18 to 20 Granny Smith Apples (or any tart baking apple), peeled and cut into wedges

2 cups sugar

1 cup Jack Daniels Whiskey

1/2 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice

2 tablespoons flour

Ground Cinnamon (or whatever sweet spices you like with your apples; i couldn’t resist grating some fresh nutmeg on a microplane over the apples. I mean really. Who could?)

Vanilla ice cream or heavy cream whipped with a splash (or more) of Jack Daniels

Cream the butter and sugar in an electric mixer with the whisk attachment for about 5 minutes, until they’re light and fluffy. Add the salt to the flour and stir to incorporate it. Add the flour to the butter mixture and use your fingertips to incorporate the flour into the butter; you want to make crumbs, not a solid, incorporated dough.

Put the apple wedges in the biggest bowl you have (and even that might not be big enough). Add the sugar, whiskey, lemon juice, flour and cinnamon and toss to coat the apples with the seasonings. Transfer the apples to two baking dishes. Scatter the topping over them, taking care to cover the apples evenly.

Place the baking dishes on a baking sheet and bake them, turning them in the oven midway through baking time so they brown evenly, until the tops are golden brown and the juices from the apples are bubbling around the edges, 45 to 50 minutes. Take the crisps out of the oven and let them cool for about 20 minutes before serving–unless you want your guests to burn their tongue. Now now…

Sharp, Fast, and Easy

Anyone who’s ever known a chef–or even anyone whose ever known a man who knows where the kitchen is–knows that both chefs and men have a thing for knives. I found one of these men, a particularly blade-obsessed young chef named Gabriel who has the bright red stain of a full pair of woman’s lips on his neck that took me about three months to figure out was a tattoo–and made him My Knife Guy. Gabriel doesn’t know he’s My Knife Guy, all he knows is that he is sharpening my knife for me, an 8-inch Shun chef’s knife given to me by Sara Foster when I was writing her book several years ago. Gabriel is sharpening my knife out of pity. Not pity for me. I mean, he might have felt a little sorry for me, but I’m sure he felt really sorry for the knife. He wouldn’t touch my Wushof though; said he didn’t understand how they work or something like that, which just goes to show you how deeply into knives he is. Although I have no idea how any knife works, I do know when a knife doesn’t work, which is how mine ended up in Gabriel’s skilled hands.

The only person that could possibly be happier than I am about my knife getting sharpened, if he weren’t already dead, would be the live spot prawn that essentially drove me to Gabriel, an innocent six-inch creature that I attempted to bisect with my sad, battered Shun–but more like sawed and hacked away at–last week. Thankfully Gabriel didn’t see this, but Erik, another chef, the braise guy at Mozza, who also knows his way with a knife, did. I’d called him over to help me when I was was testing a recipe for grilled, halved spot prawns–and things, even to my barely-trained eye, clearly weren’t going well. Erik looked down at the poor little crustacean lying in shreds on my cutting board and then picked up the knife lying next to Spot. “Wow!” he said. He sounded truly amazed as he touched the blade of my knife with increasing pressure until it were as if he were touching the edge of a paper clip. But Erik’s a nice guy. Always looking on the bright side. “At least you bought a Shun,” he said, turning his gaze from my knife up to me with a big smile. Actually, it was a gift, I confessed. Five un-sharpened years ago. Gabriel might call this child abuse.

Spot Prawns

Spot prawns are a seasonal delicacy, harvested, at least if you’re getting them in California, from off the coast of Santa Barbara. You buy them live and take them home in water, like a pet, until you decide to cook them. The idea is to kill them quickly, and I’ll guess painlessly, so if you have any heart at all, before you do anything else, go sharpen your knife–or find someone to do it for you.

Now here’s the recipe. Ready? Okay: Bisect as many live spot prawns as you want to eat and/or serve. Grill them, shell side down, until they’re cooked. This will take about 2 minutes. Take them off the grill, brush them with good olive oil, sprinkle them with Maldon salt, and eat and/or serve. This couldn’t be a more delightful experience, speaking from the point of view of someone who is not a spot prawn that is…

Yay Cupcakes! And You Thought I Was a Hater….

For reasons having to do with the fact that I had no idea how much work it would be and that I would have had no idea what else to get my friend Julie for her 40th birthday, I baked 100 cupcakes last week for Julie’s milestone party. Yes, you read that right: cupcakes. In my own defense, the idea started as a cake but evolved into cupcakes as the guest list grew like kudzu in Georgia (which means relentlessly). Thankfully I had the privilege of baking these cupcakes in the expansive Scuola kitchen at Mozza, which basically looks like the marble-topped kitchen of a really rich person who insisted on the best of everything—only this kitchen actually gets used. I made two types of cupcakes: a very basic chocolate cake with boiled sugar white icing that was the closest thing I could get to a Ding Dong, which I adore, without the spiral design on top (I’m not that good with a pastry bag). And carrot cake because that’s what the birthday girl wanted, and what bday girl wants, bday girl gets. I used the carrot cake recipe from Nancy Silverton’s Sandwich Book. Since I was using Nancy Silverton’s kitchen, and since NS insisted her carrot cake was the best ever, I did it, turning away from my mother’s carrot cake, out of respect. It turned out to be a good decision. Countless people told me it was the best carrot cake they’ve ever eaten. (Lady knows what she’s talking about.) As for me, I have to say that I softened a bit toward cupcakes after this experience. What I liked best about them for this occasion is that they are compact and neat. Portioned. Can you imagine what a giant cake would have looked like after 100 underfed individuals within shouting distance to an open bar had their way with it? So, my friends, here’s to cupcakes! Here’s to Nancy’s recipe! And here’s to Julie! Would you believe me if I told you life was better on the other side?

And now, from the grease-stained pages of my copy of NSSB….

Nancy’s Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Icing

(I scrapped the raisins and added more walnuts, so technically, according to recipe copyright laws, I am copying nothing. Still, to give credit where due…)

1 1/2 cups pastry flour (sub all-purpose flour)

1 3/4 teaspoons baking powder

1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda

2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

1 teaspoon kosher salt

1/2 teaspoon ground ginger

1/2 teaspoon ground allspice

1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

Pinch of ground cloves

1 1/2 cups packed light brown sugar

3 extra-large eggs

1 tablespoon pure vanilla extract

2 tablespoons fresh grated ginger

3/4 cup plus 1 tablespoon vegetable oil or canola oil

2 1/2 cups peeled grated carrots

1 cup walnuts, broken up with your fingers and lightly toasted (about 10 minutes at 325ºF.)

1/4 cup canned pineapple, well drained

For the Frosting

14 ounces cream cheese, softened at room temperature

4 ounces unsalted butter, softened at room temperature

3/4 cup powdered sugar, sifted

1/4 cup creme fraiche or sour cream (don’t tell Nancy, but I didn’t include this and my frosting turned out just great)

Prepare your cupcake tins and preheat your oven to 335ºF. (We prefer small cupcakes–not miniature, just not the vulgar, gargantuan cupcakes, the American desire for which is the real cause of obesity….)

Too make the cupcakes, sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, cinnamon, salt, nutmeg, ginger, allspice, and cloves together into a large bowl.

In the bowl of a standing mixer fitted with the whisk attachment, whip the brown sugar and eggs on medium-high speed until they are light in color, about 10 minutes. Add the vanilla and ginger and mix just to combine.

Add the dry ingredients and oil to the bowl with the sugar, alternately, in three batches, mixing on low just to combine. Add the carrots, pineapple, and walnuts and fold them in gently with a rubber spatula.

Pour the cake batter into your prepared cupcake tins and place them in the oven to bake until they’re done–they will spring back quickly when touched and a toothpick inserted in the center will come out clean, 12 to 15 minutes.

To make the frosting, dump the cream cheese, butter, and sugar into the bowl of a standing mixture fitted with the paddle attachment and whip them together on high speed until the frosting is light, fluffy, and free of lumps, about 10 minutes.

Ice the cupcakes in whatever way you like. I left a ring of un-iced cake around the edge of mine (a N.S. thing) and then dipped them head first in a bowl of sweetened coconut flakes, which looked pretty, tasted good, and most importantly, hid just how bad I am with a pastry bag…

Go Fig-ure.

I should have known better than to ask Tom Chino, in an email earlier this week, whether if I planted a fig–specifically a fig that came from his farm that was withering in my refrigerator–in a pot of soil, if  I’d get a fig tree.

Being friends with Japanese people should come with an instruction booklet. There are a lot of customs, and therefor a lot of possibilities for a gaigin like myself to mess up. Over the 10 years that I’ve known the Chinos, I have learned a thing or two about how things work. Very high on the list, in Tom’s words: “If you ask us for something, we are required to say ‘yes.’”  But anyone who knows the family well enough to have landed themselves inside the vortex of their famous generosity knows that it’s not just if you ask for something. So much as ask about something and you’re doomed. Doomed for good things, but still, your fate is settled.

Tom emailed me right back, saying that if I planted  what he called “the fruit of the strawberry fig,”" I would be “very lucky to get a plant.” And then, the dreaded, beloved… “If you’d like a plant… “

In fact, I’d love a plant. The Chinos grow a variety called the “strawberry fig.” I have a suspicion that’s not the scientific name, but they’re called that because the insides are ruby red, like strawberries (or at least like good strawberries). They’re tender and delicious and almost jammy, and they have more sweet fig flavor than any other fig I’ve ever tasted. In San Diego, chefs covet them. Trey Foshee, chef at George’s at the Cove, in La Jolla and a loyal customer of Chinos, serves (or at least he did), an appetizer of Chino strawberry figs, which he halves, drizzles with 100-year-old balsamic vinegar, and tops with goat cheese and Chino arugula sprouts. I thought about asking him for the recipe, but that description is the recipe. Here is a picture, which should help you achieve the sublime results. (I stole it off the web.)

Tree Foshee's Figs with Goat Cheese and Aged Balsamic

Nevertheless, when I asked about growing my own tree, I was really just trying to be resourceful. To, try my hand at… farming. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, Tom hinting about offering that tree. And in any event, I have no choice, since Tom’s next email said this: “We’ll put the wheels in motion to prepare your tree.”

I won’t get a lot of pity when I say that to be the recipient of this kind of kindness has its difficulties, any more than someone with a trust fund gets any sympathy for the woes of Having Money. But seriously. Not only am I forever (and ever and ever and ever…) in their debt. But every act of kindness toward me makes me question my own worthiness. As I write to them on the too seldom occasion that I get around to sending a thank you note: “I couldn’t possibly have done anything to deserve it, but I do appreciate it.” That’s about all I can do. That and love the fig that falls from their tree. Hopefully that’s enough.

Cuts Like a… Fish Knife

The technical name is "filet knife." It's the right tool for filleting fish.

Confession: I love any excuse to buy myself a new piece of kitchen equipment. It could be something as small as the Kuhn Rikon vegetable peeler that all the chefs have in their toolboxes (and that I therefor had to have), or as luxurious as the stainless-steel All-Clad I recently ordered that is but a UPS delivery away. There’s just something about getting this stuff that, unlike a new pair of shoes or another tube of lip gloss, makes me feel like I am committing to my life, moving forward in ways that run way deeper than the significance of the item itself.

Today, cooking with Matt, I made orata, a whole fish that, at Mozza, is stuffed with herbs, wrapped in a fig leaf, and charred on the grill. Among the many pleasures that I already knew this dish to offer, came the added bonus that in order to make it at home, he explained, which make I must, I get–I mean have–to have a fish knife. “Something very sharp and delicate and slender,” he said, looking lovingly along the backbone of his before he began the sushi-master like task of taking the bones out of this animal and still leaving it looking like a fish. I didn’t even know such a knife existed, but now that I do it’s like I can’t figure out how I’ll live without one.  The beauty pictured above, by Shun, is the one I like. Too bad it’s not my birthday.

Making the Most of What You’ve Got (To Eat)

This was my lunch yesterday. I normally don’t take pictures of what I eat, and I have been pretty clear about this not being a what-I-ate-for-dinner-last-night blog. But this was a particularly delicious melange of things I had lying around, each with its own story. First, there are the lentils. I love stewed beans spooned on tomatoes, something I was introduced to when I did an internship at Chez Panisse, which coincided with the year I lived in a hotel, or rather, a gorgeous country inn called The Inn at Rancho Santa Fe, where I had a stove but not an oven, and where I was a stones throw from Chino Farms, which grows both the best tomatoes known to man, and some of the most unusual shell beans on the planet. Yesterday’s substitution of lentils had to do with the fact that they were there: I’d just tested them for the Mozza cookbook. These are Umbrian lentils, a tiny brown variety from a tiny town called Castelluccio, in Umbria, where just about all towns are tiny. At Mozza they are cooked in a style the restaurant calls Castellucciano, that begins with a prosciutto-boosted soffritto and ends with an emulsion of fruity Umbrian olive oil. The parsley leaves were part of my recipe-testing leftovers, the next best thing to arugula, which I didn’t have, or whole baby basil leaves, which I might have chosen if a mite hadn’t eaten up my entire herb garden. The shaved Parm is there because shaved Parm on tomatoes and beans is practically mandatory. (Though last summer in Umbria I made it beans and the more pungent, sheep’s milk cheese, Pecorino, which is made locally and which I rode to the Monday market in the nearby town of Tavarnelle on what I came to think of as “my” Vespa, to purchase.) And then there were the tomatoes themselves. The whole dish was built around the gorgeous heirloom tomatoes: purple cherokees and brandywines that had been delivered to me by my friend Andre, from Chino Farm last week. Andre and I both make the round-trip from LA to San Diego often, and we always ask the other if we need anything. When I asked him if he might stop at Chinos for tomatoes, it was Wednesday, farmers market day. I could have gone to the market and got my hands on some tomatoes that some might believe were either just as good, or close. But the truth is that on this particular day I didn’t need the tomatoes as much as I needed a quick infusion of Chino love. Here it is. Can’t you see it? Right there on the plate, underneath the lentils…

Regarding Rufus

I’ve had a few queries about my dog, since I did put his life on the line yesterday, so I thought I’d introduce him here and say that he is alive, well, and ready to eat whatever scraps fall to the ground today.

This is Rufus (on the right)

These pictures were taken at the Mozza staff Fourth of July party.

I just LOVE parties! (Especially at Nancy's.)

Nancy rented 2 taco trucks to feed the 300 guests: the Koji Korean BBQ taco truck, and the taco truck from Border Grill.

The warring trucks. Rufus is under one of trucks. Eating no doubt.

Rufus had to scrounge for scraps around the Koji truck like his cousins in his ancestral town, Tijuana. But here he is waiting patiently for an authentic Mexican taco of cochinita pibil.

"I'll have the cochinita pibil, por favor."

They say beggars can’t be choosers but Rufus was clearly partial to the real Mexican deal. Like mother, like dog.

"the pickled onions are what really make it!"

A Hold on Hope

Last night I was sitting at the bar at Canele eating a Not Nancy Silverton Burger with some friends and chatting with the very cool Lesley Balla about Twitter and why she Twitters and whether she thinks anyone really cares where she is or what she is eating, when Lesley logged on to Twitter to alert her followers of what she was eating and where, and we learned that Ted Kennedy had died.

I like so many people had a soft spot for Ted Kennedy. My step-dad, Hugo, who raised me, had been a campaign manager for JFK in California, and I grew up believing that the world would be a more hopeful place if John and/or Bobby had had a chance to run it. My parents repeated the story of Chapaquitic the way others must recite fables from the Bible. A lesson on what not to do and of how bad things can go for how long as the result of one bad decision. I’m not sure if it was my parents’ intention or the opposite, but I liked Ted Kennedy all the more for his mistakes. Hugo was a judge and I remember him telling me how frustrating it was that one after another, a man would stand before him, his life in Hugo’s hands: Why hadn’t he heeded some of the earlier warnings or learned from the lesser punishments along the way? Now here Hugo was, bound by sentencing laws to send them away to a place where they would learn how to become better criminals, not better men. Ted Kennedy was the opposite. He got off for his crime as Kennedys do. But he went through life like a man who had sentenced himself. He carried himself with grace and humility as he devoted his life to public service. Of course nothing could repay the debt he owed, but don’t we all make mistakes? How shallow would we be without our regrets?

I made rice balls today and they didn’t turn out. I mean, they tasted delicious–and they were indeed rice balls–but the bread crumbs were too coarse and the risotto not tight enough. As Rufus and I walked home from Mozza, our failed rice balls and the stuff I needed to try again tomorrow in hand, the sky was turning from dusk to dark and the night blooming jasmine was beginning to perfume the air and for no real reason other than hope itself, I felt happy.

The Sweet and Savory Smell of Success

Brasato. I stole this picture from a blogger who took a picture of his dinner at Osteria Mozza, but trust me when I tell you that mine looked (and tasted) EXACTLY like this!

One of the positive side affects of a bar set high is that when you meet it, you feel heart-swellingly good about your self and about life. The weekend before last, I made a lamb ragú, the first of my recipes that Matt declared “Mozza-esque,” and I almost cried. Last weekend I made short ribs, or what is called on the menu Beef Brasato, which means “braised” in Italian (but really I’m just guessing here). When I brought it into the restaurant for Matt to look and and taste, he said it was perfect and told me to take it to Nancy. I brought it to her behind the mozzarella bar where she was just starting Saturday night’s service. “What did Matt say?” she said as she slid her fork into my plate of fork tender beef, glistening with braising juices and topped with a refreshing tangle of celery and parsley leaf salad. I told her he’d said they were perfect. “They are perfect,” she said as she tasted them. “Have you ever made short ribs before?” I told her I had, once, but not like this. I now had a much deeper and more intricate understanding of short ribs. And what sat before me was much more refined than the stewy beef I’d made before, which was still delicious, but certainly not Mozza-esque. “You’re like the girl in that movie,” she said, referring to the Nora Ephron movie, Julia and Julia, which we went to see together. “You’re going to cook your way from one end of this book to the other.” Yeah, I guess I am… And I’m really loving the sense of accomplishment as I take the mystery out of each of these dishes and with my own words, and then my own hands, put it right on the plate. She looked straight at me then and asked: “Aren’t you proud of yourself?” Well, yes, I said, actually, I am really proud of myself. And I was even prouder now knowing that she thought I had something to be proud of.

Sadly I can’t give away recipes (you’ll have to buy the book!) so here I have stolen a page from the book of one of Matt’s mentors, Mario Batali. Mario serves his on pumpkin risotto, but unless you have that recipe–and feel like taking the time to make it, i suggest you serve it over creamy polenta. Borrow a page from Twist of the Wrist and use boxed instant polenta (not to be confused with the play-do stuff in the tubes). And if you have the book, make it Nancy’s way, with milk and Parmesan, and infused with fresh thyme. Mario, we all know, is a great cook, so I trust this is good. That said, I didn’t test this recipe. That’’s what they call a disclaimer.

1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil
4 short ribs (1 pound each)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper
2 carrots, cut up into big pieces
1 large Spanish onion, roughly chopped
1 celery stalk, cut up into big pieces
5 garlic cloves, thinly sliced
2 cups red wine
1 cup chicken stock (or more as needed)
10 thyme sprigs
10 oregano sprigs
a few rosemary sprigs

Preheat the oven to 350.
Heat the olive oil in a large skillet or Dutch oven until it is almost smoking, 2 to 3 minutes. Season the short ribs generously on all sides with salt and pepper. Cook them to brown all sides, about 15 minutes total. Remove the short ribs to a plate and add the carrots, onion, and celery to the pan you cooked the meat in. Cook, stirring often, until the vegetables have softened, about 10 minutes. Add the garlic and cook for another minute, stirring constantly so it doesn’t brown. Stir in the wine, tomatoes, chicken stock, and herbs and bring the mixture to a boil. Turn off the heat and return the short ribs to the pan, bone side down. Cover the pan tightly with aluminum foil and then the lid, if it has one and place in the oven. Cook until the short ribs are fork tender and literally falling off the bones, 2 to 3 hours.

To make the gremolata, combine the leaves from 1 bunch of flat-leaf parsley, the zest of 2 lemons in a bowl. Grate 1/4 pound of fresh horseradish over the salad and toss again gently.

To serve, spoon the polenta (or whatever carb you are serving it on) onto four plates. Place a short rib onto each, drizzle with a spoonful of the pan juices, top with the gremolata, and serve.