Meat

THE SHIT I EAT WHEN BY MYSELF – ORANGE RAMEN

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IT REMINDS ME OF (HIGH SCHOOL CAFETERIA), MINUS THE SIDE OF CONSCIENCE THAT CAME WITH ADULTHOOD

So… I guess here we go.  Day 1 of my new segment – The Shits I Eat When I’m By Myself.  Listen… if you were gonna dump me after this, please do it gingerly, ok?

And really, there’s no point talking or paining an elaborate narrative for this “shit”.  It’s pretty self-explanatorily wrong which, unfortunately by the same definition, also guarantees to be uber-tasty.  Any form of instant ramen-noodle drenched in a bastard-sauce between something tomato-ragu-ish and cheez-whiz-ish… cannot taste bad.  It reminds me of the very popular, tomato/cheese ravioli they sold at my high school cafeteria, minus the side of conscience that came with adulthood.

But what I should point out is – given that if you were gonna do the same – this is something one should only do when utterly alone.  I will not be held accountable for what happens when other human beings walk in on you doing this…

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MISO CARBONARA W/ MINI SAUSAGE MEATBALLS

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THIS COULD VERY WELL BE, THE ONLY SENSIBLE THING THAT SHOWS UP HERE FOR THIS ENTIRE WEEK…

Jason is going away for this entire week.  This isn’t the first time it happens, nor is it a rare occurrence.  But what you’ll feel differently about this week, not including this particular post, is going to be somewhat of a breakthrough.  Thing is, if you had any presumptions about me, as someone who likes to cook and carries out every meal big or small, with a sense of class and dignity, for the next 7 days, you’ll find your theory… horrifiedly misguided.  Pretty scallion-oil chicken rolls on a pedestal?  Gourmet popcorns to accompany DVD-binging?  Pffff~ pleeease… you’re too cute.

The fault, is mine.  For I haven’t exactly been honest about what goes on in here, when there’s absolutely nobody watching.  Truth is, like comedians being freakishly quiet off stage, cooking for me, is a hobby that erodes with the absence of audiences.  Truth is, what I “cook” for myself and myself only, is inexcusably, for lack of better words, horrendous.  So here I am.  I don’t know where I found such commitment, but I’ve sternly decided that we (as, you and me) have entered a phase in our relationship, where “truth” is required for the hope of a sustainable future together…

Which prompted this new segment I would call, as previously mentioned:  The stuff Shit I Eat When I’m By Myself.

Do not be mistaken that these are products of desperations.  You’d hurt my feelings.  They are all – and it takes great courage to admit – “foods” that I sickeningly and hopelessly, love to eat.  Regardless the fact that you may find them only socially excusable, if I was a college student who just spent the the last $20 on alcohol school supplies.  Some of them may be accompanied with a “recipe”, as others may, thankfully, not.  But whatever you will take away from this, I hope that they at the very least, entertains you.

So enjoy this one before “The Shit” hits the fan, the last proper dinner I made before the “audience” decided to leave me to rot in the land of culinary-ruin, creamy and nutty miso carbonara with tiny sausage meatballs.  For this could very well be the only sensible thing that shows up here for this entire week.

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THE INCREDIBLE LAHMACUN AND AYRAN

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THE FOOD-EQUIVALENT OF BATMAN AND ROBIN, THE BRANGELINA OF ICONIC TURKISH EATS

  

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AS some of you may have noticed from this particular announcement, that I am now officially divorced… from the commitment of owning a stand-mixer (easy, gentlemen…).  More accurately, a surprised appliancewidow if you may, still deeply hurt by the concealed unhappiness my stand-mixer had apparently suffered from in the past 4 years, which finally led to his jump off the kitchen counter on a cloudy Oct 24th, decapitating himself in his last, escapist act.  The lumpy splatter of an unfinished pizza-dough over the black pavement, was his first and last, silent yet loudest protest, before declaring eternal freedom… from me.  Looking back, devastated, I don’t think he has ever loved me…

Now, mid 30’s, dumped, and less equipped…

I know at times like this, I’m suppose to resort to less labour-intensive tasks in the kitchen, a pasta-salad perhaps, or a one-bowl-pancake mix with added sparkles, maybe even the unthinkable salad, to hide the scars from this tragic embarrassment, and more importantly, look really hot while doing it.  But no.  In an counter-protest to the irresponsibility of a suicidal stand-mixer, giving up making doughs is admitting defeat.  With bare hands, I’m gonna prove that without him, I’m still highly desirable in the dough-market and totally dough-able.  Not just the same dough down the sad memory lane, but I’m gonna make something awsome-er, something super-er.

I’m gonna make the incredible, lamahcun and ayran.READ MORE

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CUMIN SPARE RIBS

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DON’T GIVE ME THE BULLSHIT, IN THE END, DO I TASTE FREAKING-ABSOLUTELY AWESOME?


  

To be honest, I don’t think I have ever truly enjoyed BBQ ribs.  It has always been, to me at least, more enjoyable as an idea – the smile of the pit-master, the black smoker hissing under the Southern sun, the sense of all American lifestyle – than in actuality.  In actuality, I’ve been waiting my whole life so far, to be impressed, turned, proven wrong, by something that I so desperately would like to grow more fond of.  But in the end, picking at a pile of ribs that are often borderline dry and overly sweet, I always ended up wondering if I have missed something.

This isn’t to say, the rib’s problem.  In fact, any form of scanty meats adhering to a disproportionate amount of bones, that requires bare hands and  sheer fangs to tear down, I’m there.  In fact, the rib-hole that had been ironically left hollow in my long years spent in holy BBQ-land, was immediately filled and nurtured within a month after I moved here, by the most unlikely of all cuisines.  A Northern Chinese creation called, cumin spare ribs.  Typically you wouldn’t think the word “mild” is the most associated vocabulary for American BBQ ribs, where plenty of spices and smokes coincide in effort to achieve the opposite.  But when put side by side with Chinese’s answer to finger-licking ribs, that’s exactly how they will appear.

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SRIRA-CHOPPED CHEESE

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JUSTIFICATION – MAXIMUM CARAMELIZATION

SO you watched Tony Bourdain in Bronx, didn’t you?

And if in the next following days, a certain very catchy phrase got stuck in your head like the most maddeningly annoying tune, echoing “chop’cheese… no, chop-peh-ded cheese… chop’cheese…”, steady, you are not mad.  You are just, like me, actually more Bronx than you ever thought you were.  This supposedly Bronx-via-Harlem native dish, even though, was not at all the leading lady in the narrative of that show (i mean let’s face it, Chuchifrito… who can beat that diva), but she struck a tune that I couldn’t stop singing, and there’s only one way to shut her up.

But just because I wrote about this handsome dude here awhile back, doesn’t mean I’m familiar with the other girl next door.  So who’s chopped cheese?  With a name like “chopped cheese”, you know she’s not the kinda girl who reads Goop, al’right.  She doesn’t take the hipster burger non-sense or customizable patty elitism, in fact, pffff, she doesn’t even give a fuck about her slightly more polished cousin, cheese burger.  Chopped cheese, is about disrespecting a patty in the most gloriously wrong of ways, dismantling it half-way during cooking with complete disregard to the concept of, juice, or the ludicrous question of, doneness.  Hey.  Just ain’t the way she likes it.  Everything we’ve been taught not to do to a patty, she’s done.  Justification?  Maximum caramelization.  To brown every possible square inch of ground beef to draw out the beefy-ness within, and let the cheese melt into the desperate nooks and crannies in between in a greasy, fluid unison.  In the most non-vogue sorta way, she’s some kinda sexy.

So here you’re thinking, how do I get me some of that sexiness.  Well first, before you even pull your pants up to go out to the grocery stores, you gotta put your mind right.  Any obsession within you for refinement, artisanal bullshit, the love for your French cuffs, should be tossed out the window.  She’s not impressed with your suits and ties.  She likes fatty and economically friendly ground beef (and if you even raise a thought of grinding your own beef?  To the left.).  She works better with non-real American cheese and a soft, squishy bun.  And she likes to be eaten instantly when you’re still in your grease-splattered T-shirt, standing by the edge of the kitchen counter, marvelling.   It makes her feel special.

Well now… so you’ve been introduced.  I guess this is the perfect time to… leave you two alone. READ MORE

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menchi katsu kare/ hamburger croquette w Japanese curry sauce

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DEEP-FRIED XL HAMBURGER PATTY… DOUSED WITH LAVA-LIKE JAPANESE CURRY… WITH A DEFENSIVE PILE OF SHREDDED CABBAGE AND PICKLES

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BEING not quite a licensed psychologist but more of a serial psycho-analyzer, I believe it must mean something, whether wishfully cute or symptomatically alarming, when your husband starts to lie to you about… what he had for lunch.  I mean it must

I’m not suggesting anyone to panic if similar clinical signs start to emerge in your marital routines or relationship.  Because based on my own study – lasting 6-plus years since the first, then constant episodes – the impact on the delicate harmony of nuptials isn’t exactly dire, but nonetheless, worth further investigation.  To continue, I guess I have to present the evidence of its first symptomatic appearance…

Back in the years when we were still in New York, for the longest time I was made to believed that in the barren wasteland far-far-away called “the financial district”, more often than not, poor he had to survive on a “very small cup” of Korean stew from a corner-deli (holding out both of his thumbs and index fingers to form a tiny circle) with an unfinished small bowl of steamed rice and kimchi.  Shoulders hunched and holding my sympathy hostage, his unspoken demand for a more nourishing dinner were usually met without any challenge.  Little did I know… until the first time I finally met him for lunch… The alleged “very small cup” turned out to be a venti TUB!  That amount can feed a Victoria’s Secret model for a month on her best eating days!  From then on, I take his lunch answers – “a few bites on a 6″ cold-cut subway and 1/2 of an oatmeal cookie”, “a small steamed bun with a little side of sautéed pepper and beef, but very little beef”, “a box of noodle that I ate half-way… only”, “zucchinis…”, “NO lunch” – with the scars of the deceived.  Who the hell knows, he could’ve sexed cheese burgers raining down with confetti then washed’em down by a keg of dark ale and instead just said, “some sliders at happy hour”.

But these were not the most shameful episodes you see.  The siren of his guilt-driven lies only sounds louder when all specifics are avoided, with just the misleading type of restaurants given…

“What did you have for lunch today?”

“Japanese…”READ MORE

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CANTONESE-STYLE ROAST PORK BELLY

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On the 20th of May 2013, I made a recipe that up to this day, more than a year later, still haunts me.  It was a glorious, beautifully crafted specimen of pork belly confit, originally created by the Thomas Keller of whom I almost always, agree with.

There was nothing fundamentally wrong with it.  The belly went through long hours of brining process before taking a hot-fat-tub bath that was equally as elaborate, then it went on to sit through an overnight pressing procedure… for reasons I followed without asking.  Then, finally, 24 hours later in this excruciating climb to climax, it was sent into a skillet to fulfil its actual purpose – to form a golden, perforated crackling from the skin.  The final torching of a caramel crust, although not from the original recipe, added a nice and thoughtful crunch and sweetness to the overall score.  Like I said, there wasn’t anything fundamentally wrong with it…

Except that it was just too damn, unnecessarily complicated!

OK, you’re right.  For those who only stop by once in a while, I’m evidently not someone who, by principle, seeks kitchen-shortcuts.  I receive considerable amount of twisted pleasure from fiddling with obsessive cooking behavior I mean, I have an entire section named “Got nothing but time” (which I do) for crying out loud.  But the premise is that the extra fusses should always be because a) it’s absolutely necessary by science (like fermentation), or b) it actually saves the overall effort by doing so (like leaving something to roast overnight).  I guess all I’m asking for, the pole that I’m curbing my insanity to, is that the time and effort spent are not for some minuscule, or sometimes, undetectable differences.  And I’m afraid that in the case of pork confit, I’m gonna have to prove myself right by proving myself wrong.READ MORE

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EASY MOLE-D BEEF TOSTADAS

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I have never been to Mexico.

To clarify further, I have never even been close to any of the states next to Mexico except maybe LA, which I’m not even going to use as my pathetic credentials on real Mexican cooking which is to say, zero to none.  I’ve heard that Taco Bell is about as close to real Mexican food as fortune cookies are to being Chinese.  I’ve also heard that they don’t actually “nacho” much over there.  Aside from that, Mexican food has remained quite a romantic mystery.

But even though I don’t know enough to say what’s Mexican food, whatever it is, that tasteless borderline-inedible crap we were served with the other day near Beijing’s embassy area, was definitely not it.  Given that it was a very hot day hence we weren’t feeling particular choosey, we thought those more-than-a-handful patrons who were present during off-meal hours were a good indicator that the restaurant at least serves human food.  WROOONG!  I mean seriously, seriously, how inhumanly difficult is it to serve passable tacos to someone who’s never had a real taco!  Not so freaking hard is it?  Why!?

We left the place feeling psychologically hungry.  The trauma only left me wanting more of what I’ve never had – dainty Mexican tacos good enough to fool myself.  Then before long, my discontent took my memory back to a cookbook I’ve owned forever but never cooked from – Off the Menu: Staff Meals from America’s Top Restaurants, which features A.O.C in LA and a recipe for their tostadas-tuesday.  OK, the critically acclaimed restaurant is not Mexican, and tostadas are not tacos but more like tacos with fried tortillas.  Do I have problem with any of that?  I mean do you?

Since this is starting to look like someone with no Mexican cooking experience, starting off from a recipe by a non-Mexican restaurant, I thought it won’t hurt much more to impose further ungrounded twists.  A.O.C’s recipe sauté the ground beef with aromatics and spices, but I want it to be more “Mexican-y”… whatever that is.  So I made a puree with soften dried chilis, onions, garlic and thyme, and a spice-mixture that includes something I’ve never used before in savoury dishes – unsweetened cocoa power.


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STACKED GREEN PIG SANDWICH

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 A SANDWICH THAT HAS NO STORY…

IT’S JUST REALLY TASTY.

YESTERDAY, the last day of Jason’s 3-day-business-trip to Hong Kong, Jiaozi/Dumpling pulled a performance of his life at 10 in the morning, in a theatrical masterpiece called – This Is It.  Good bye, mom and dad.  Limping and whimpering, wordless but powerful… his flawless craft of showmanship efficiently triggered a wild response from the only audience, and prompted an emergency change in Jason’s itinerary for an earlier return.  Then. This morning.  Suspiciously and miraculously so, he was moonwalking lively around his “feeding zone” – I’d imagine singing the Smooth Criminal – barking and dancing for his personally prepared chicken liver-rice.  Celebrating the success of his pathetic ploy… he ate a shit-load.

I know, I know that I shouldn’t project reasons and meanings behind animal behaviors when there’s probably none…  He’s just an cunning old, sneaky wavy-haired boy Maltese.  It’s just sometimes, it’s really hard not to do that.

But what does that have to do with today’s sandwich?  Absolutely nothing.

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FIRE AND ICE, AND EVERYTHING NICE

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the refreshment of slippery noodles in an icy tangy broth… gliding down with sizzling pork fat on a stick.

 

BEST ARGUMENT A SUMMER CAN HAVE.


SEEMINGLY, if you think that I have lost my mind and regards to the diversity of this blog somewhere in the frozen land of popsicles, gelato and gelato plus slushy cocktails, here’s a proof that… you’re absolutely correct.  These days, I feel as much desire to be in close proximity to open flames as there is to a screaming baby on an airplane.  Even with evident love for a bowl of hot and slurpable fire, these days I want my dinner to feel as close to a cold shivering shower as it can get, and believe it or not, it can.

Allow me to present evidence from our last two years in New York where we had the pleasure of visiting Fort Lee a few times, aka the better Korean Town just across the Hudson from Upper Manhattan.  Before such trips, I thought I could be happily-ever-after with Manhattan’s functioning K-town with its satisfactory BBQ following an affordable eyelash-extension.  But Fort Lee had ruined such ludicrous fantasy with delicious aggression.  The variety of dishes served there isn’t too different, but with just an extra pinch of much-ness that kicks them from good, to great.  And among which, the glorious mul Naengmyeon was unlike any I’ve ever had.

It means “cold noodle”, but boy is that an understatement.

Apart from dishes with the same claims, mul naengmyeon has kicked the word “cold” to a new level.  Instead of mixing noodles that are cooled after cooking with various sauces, it plunges them into an icy bath of broth made from beef and pickling juice that is chilled to a borderline frozen state.  As I swam my chopsticks through the frosty lake of flavours, I could hear the sound of slushes colliding in a refreshing symphony.  The buckwheat noodles were cold, chewy and slippery, gliding effortlessly into my properly chilled tummy with the savoury and tangy broth, topped with more pickles and thinly sliced pear and cucumber.

It is not a summer dish.  It is the summer dish.

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THE MEMOIR OF A BEEF BURGER

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MY grandfather was a mysterious man.

Not much is known for facts but there are certainly many stories about him, speaking of a skinny, humble working-class man often seen in between two slices of bread trying to make a buck or two at food fairs back in the late 1800’s.  Who his ancestors were and where they came from, is still up to this day, my most intimate wonders.  Were they even named a Burger?  And whatever stories, legends even, being told about his tale of becoming the untoppled icon of a nation’s food-identity, remain exactly that, just stories.  But if there is one thing indisputable about those stories, the truth that inspired the myth, or at least so everyone says, it’s that he was a fine and proud citizen of America.  And that’s fine enough by  me.

Truth is, I was never too held up on who my grandfather was.  After all, I’m pretty sure, I am nothing like him.  I am more of the making of my father, who’s the heir of an idea and the product of the industrial revolution, who, all together, turned what my grandfather left him into an empire that forever changed how a country eats, the world even, for better or worse.  In various steps and establishments, he invented a new era in America called the fast food around the 1940’s, who defined and made our family name, Hamburger, known to literally every man, woman, child, some lucky dogs and city pigeons around this world.  Most adore him.  Many don’t.  History will decide wether to side with him or not, but one thing for sure is that he is a great, historic man, and I am, his legacy.


MY FATHER IS A GREAT, HISTORIC MAN.  AND I AM, HIS LEGACY


My father is a man of few words… for that I don’t know what aspirations, if any, he has for me.  Yes, has.  I didn’t say he dead.  In fact, he is at the height of his prime at expanding his already mega dollar-making machine through every human-occupied corners of this world.  Right, loaded.  That we are, too.  Perhaps it’s precisely because I grew up accustomed to the security and comfort of a family establishment, I became something you would call, a rebel.  I have no desire to follow my father’s footsteps in the advancement towards industrial fooding.  It’s a fortune yes, but nonetheless a fortune made on basic, unornamented commodities that lack glam and artistry.  Like the rest of my own kind, the third generation of a traditional empire who  has too much to prove for themselves, I am, above all else, eager to redefine.

And boy, redefined I have.

Somewhere in the last decade was the ignition of my own torch to pass down, and it’s burning brighter than ever.  My grandfather would never in his wildest dreams, the flappy white toasts and leftover ground meat that he was, imagined the burger that I am today.  A long way from being a mere necessity in the 1800’s, or the cold counters of soulless assembly-lines in the 1900’s, I am the poster child of the modern American food-scene, attended with almost obsessive care, even labeled black, served to the most stellar eaters in the country.  I carry myself with prestigious cuts of beef, in the company of top knives in the industry.  I am more than food.  I am porn.  Some even say, better than sex.  I wouldn’t know.  I’m just a burger.

But that was the hubris of my youth.  Today, I am an older, wiser man.  In the settlement of fireworks and egos, I have grown enough confidence to tell you that mastering me is only as difficult as the industry would like you to believe.  With simple tips and tricks, I am not, unlike my grandfather, a mystery.

And maybe, who knows, that you’ll be the next human to reshape the future of my family.

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To home-grind your patty, or not to home-grind your patty?  Well, there are pros and cons on both sides.

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  • PROS on grinding your own beef:
    • You get to be as fancy as you’d like with the cuts. A combination of aged rib-eye, skirt steak and brisket is said to be the blend of supremacy.  The secret on the ratio is a highly guarded, overrated marketing gimmick in my opinion.  You pretty much can’t go wrong with these cuts, as long as you don’t included unwanted tendons and excess connective tissues.  Whatever the combination is, I like to result on a total 30% of fat just because we are on the subject of lusciousness
    • Update on 2014/07/13:  A reader reminded me that adding seasoning and spices directly into the ground meat (like making sausages) is also another pros!  Because mixing already-ground beef can make the meat tough.
  • CONS on grinding your own beef:
    • Most people will default to a food-processor for grinding at home.  But if your food-processor is a less robust machinery, it can result in uneven, chewy bits of fat and connective tissues that aren’t cut properly.  Running the machine for too long will give you a pasty, woody ground which is no better than store-bought ground beef, not to mention a waste of money.
    • The consistency of a food-processor ground beef is still, more or less, different than from a meat grinder.  The meats are cut into tiny tiny pieces that resembles ground meat, but has a “chunkier” texture.  Some prefer it.  Some don’t.  For example, you can compare the difference in texture between the top-left picture (food-processor ground) with the top-right picture (store-bought meat grinder).

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  • PROS on store-bought ground beef:
    • Well, convenience.  And cheap.
  • CONS on store-bought ground beef:
    • Most of supermarket’s ground beef is run through a fine-grind setting, resulting in a bit of “mushy” texture.  It is better to ask the butcher, if you have one, to grind the beef on demand through a coarse setting on the meat-grinder.
    • Obviously you’ll have less control over the fat-content and cuts of the beef.  The fat content will affect how much the patty will shrink during cooking (more details on shaping the patty in the recipe).  Some supermarkets do label the fat-contents of the meat, some don’t.  But is this going to present a huge problem for you?  Not really.  The shortcomings of store-bought ground beef can be made up with some flavouring tricks that will turn it into a great burger as well.

Whether or not your patty is of a fancy cuts of beef or down-to-earth store-bought, it should be treated with the same care and details.

There’s a few things here that is a bit unorthodox.  First, is stuffing butter inside the patty.  This recipe is one of the rare cases where you want o use salted butter, instead of unsalted butter.  The salted-ness will flavour the center of the patty where you otherwise can’t (mixing the ground beef in order to season it, will toughen the meat).  The butter will melt and run through the ground meat during cooking.  Even though you may loose most of the butter, the result is a more flavourful and juicier patty.  Update 2014/07/13:  Using herbed/seasoned butter can be a good way to introduce added flavour to store-bought ground beef without having to mix it.  A reader suggested using frozen butter to prevent melting too fast during cooking.  Let me know if anybody has tested this theory :)  

Then, the dusting of seasoned flour on both sides of the patty can seem quite weird.  But I think it encourages caramelizing and the forming of a “crust”.  Just a whiff-y thin layer of seasoned flour will not taste like “breading”, but instead, a deeper… nuttier and crustier surface.

Then, I like toasting the buns in the same skillet as the patty is cooking.  They will pick up the rendered fat and browned bits.  Overall, more flavourful.

This burger is kept simple, just a great patty, great bun, caramelized onion and Dijon mustard.  I’m not including any measurements/weights for patty because it will vary greatly based on the size of the buns using.  You should measure the patty based on diameter and thickness.  And I’m using these potato rolls.  I’m not going to include instruction for caramelized onion because it’s already widely available.  But adding a few halved cherry tomatoes while cooking the onions (let them caramelize together) will add good flavour.


To grind your own beef:  Choose a combination of cuts between rib-eye (for fat and flavour), skirt steak, chuck or brisket (for beefy flavour) with the total ratio of fat at about 30% (I used only rib-eye).  Remove a small piece of fat from the steak and reserve for cooking, then cut the rest into small chunks.  Cover with plastic-wrap and flash-freeze for 1 ~ 1:30 hours until hardened (but not stone-hard).  Transfer them into the food-processor, filling it only 1/3 of the way at a time, and pulse until the meats are cut/ground into very tiny pieces, resembling ground meat.  If not using immediately, transfer the ground beef onto a paper towel-lined baking sheet (to absorb excess liquid) and keep cold inside the fridge.

At 30% fat, the patty will shrink during cooking as fats are rendered down.  So you need to calculate the diameter of the patty at 15% larger than the diameter of the buns, and each patty should be 3/4″ thick (about 2 cm).  I highly recommend using a round biscuit-cutter to help forming uniformly shaped patties!  It makes a difference.

Choose a round cutter with the right diameter for your patty.  Put a layer of ground beef down and make sure it conforms tightly to the shape of the cutter.  In the center of the patty, put a slice of salted butter that’s about 1 tsp, then top with another layer of ground beef.  The whole patty should be 3/4″ thick.  Again, make sure that the meat conforms tightly to the cutter, as well as sticking soundly to the bottom layer of meat.  Slowly remove the cutter/mold, then transfer the patty to a paper towel-lined baking sheet.  Repeat with the rest.

To use store-bought ground beef:  Store-bought ground beef usually ranges from 10% to 20% fat, sometimes up to 25%.  The leaner the beef, the less it will shrink during cooking, so pick a round cutter/mold that’s 5% larger than the buns.  Repeat the making of patties as instructed above.

To cook the patty:  Mix 1/2 cup (63 grams) of flour with 1 tsp of salt and 2 tsp of freshly ground black pepper.  Lightly pat both sides of a patty with the flour mixture, and dust off ANY excess.  Heat a large, heavy-bottomed skillet over high heat.  Rub the reserved beef-fat on the surface of the skillet until you have a thin layer of oil (or use bacon-dripping).  Gently place the patty on the skillet, and toast the cut-side of the buns on the side.  Don’t move the patty until you see a browned crust has formed on the bottom of the patty, then flip it over (the interior butter will ooze out, it’s ok)(remember to remove the buns once they are toasted!).  Re-seaon the patty with sea salt and freshly ground black pepper during cooking.  Never cook the patty all the way through.  The best doneness, I think, is medium-well done.   The patty should have deeply caramelized crust on both sides, but you’ll still see pinkish juice oozing out from the mid-section.  The skillet needs to be hot enough to achieve this.

Transfer the patty over to the bun that’s already smeared with Dijon mustard on both sides.  Top with caramelized onions and let rest for 5 min, then serve.

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OLD BEIJING LAMB SKEWER

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THERE are many virtues about Beijing, and as far as I’m concerned, they are all true.  The widely studied, highly evolved lung-capacity of its residence to withstand extremely volatile air molecules is among the most celebrated.  The profound unity and rewardless participation in the national sport of competitive spitting, for god and country, is none but true patriotism.  Then, perhaps the most famous although not as extraordinary as the former points, that it’s true, these fine citizens do know how to roast a damn duck.

Like actually actually.

But the most extraordinary things are those that go unadvertised.  The best-kept secret, the silent do-er in this fine metropolis is tucked away in every unknown streets and corners, and I mean every streets and corners.  It’s the most note-worthy and representative of Beijing street-food scene, and as far as I’m concerned, it is this word – 串.

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